#SCAB Design

[alienssstufff]

scab-dynamic (and it goes both ways)

[verstappenverse]

All This Time

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was your first everything, first friend, first heartbreak. Now years later he’s world champion, and you’re standing in front of him like no time has passed at all. (Requested)

3.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t expect him to remember.

Not after all this time. Not after the years had passed like train cars speeding in the dark, loud, fast, and gone before you could even wave.

You’d stayed in motorsport, of course. Racing had been in your blood too once. You never fully pursued it like Max did, but you’d carved out a place for yourself behind the scenes, making a name for yourself in strategy, development, coaching, anything that kept you close to the world you loved. Anything but Formula 1. You avoided that part like a wound you never let scab, too afraid it might tear open the second you saw his name on a garage wall.

But today when you finally step into the Red Bull garage and your eyes meet his, those same ocean-blue eyes that once squinted against the sun as he begged you to race him down some dusty backroad the world doesn’t just pause. It stops entirely.

Max Verstappen freezes like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds

[nanjokei]

what's the [redacted] ship you mentioned in your meta post, i'm really curious

if the character that makes up the other half of the ship's design is revealed this century i will let you know

[aintmyjewelry]

finding out brad pitt just TODAY paused production on his film - weeks into the writers and actors strike - is mind-blowing.

[supercutszns]

rotten to the touch; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc: 3.2k

pairing: pre-tlt luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: you’re pretty sure you’re an awful person. you’re pretty sure luke castellan is too. and you’re pretty sure you want to make out with him.

warnings: reader is flawed & not the greatest, luke is ... a little dark🫣, small mention of blood, swearing, lots of making out but no explicit nsfw, a bit toxic, & no more more ‘i can fix him’ or ‘i can make him worse’ it’s ‘he can make ME worse’

notes: this is… sluttier than my usual stuff so it’s not as good but i’m trying, feedback is appreciated! also i wonder what cabin we think this reader would be in, let me know where you’d place her im curious :) maybe i’ll write more of her in the future she’s interesting!! and thank you for 100 followers i am so grateful<3 designated song for this fic is crush by ethel cain

You are a miserable, wicked, asshole of a person, and everybody knows it. Including you.

It’s unclear to you why you turned out this way—every reason to blame never satiates the fury searing your insides. All the campers hate you. The counsellors, too. Even Chiron looks down on the viciousness inside you. You are Camp Half-Blood’s black sheep; a mean, bitter person with no love for the people around you. And it’s not just for show. You know you’re rotten. You know the anger will never go away.

It’s evident in the things you think about other people—the way you pick them apart in your head, toss them aside, because they just don’t see it. This miserable, unforgiving world, with children sleeping on wooden floors because the people who created you think you disposable. Because they can just make more of you. More, more, more, until one of you comes out rotten, born of all the ugliness they have inside them. You are the worst parts of Godly blood. The wrathful parts.

Everyone hates you. Everyone hates a person with an unquenchable anger.

But everyone loves Luke Castellan.

He’s a saint at Camp Half-Blood if there ever was one. Handsome, generous, kind. Goes out of his way to help out the new kids and gives them homes in his cabin. He’s the best swordsman in camp by a mile. Shit, you’d even love Luke Castellan if you didn’t know any better.

But you do, and you don’t, and it’s complicated, okay?

Because there’s something you know about Luke Castellan that nobody else does: he’s miserable and wicked, too.

You see it in his eyes sometimes. The way they look at you at dinner, when you’re picking at your food away from anyone else at your table. Something familiar rises in them, and your stomach twists. His body tenses whenever someone mentions his father, but the smiles he flashes are so charismatic nobody notices. But you do. It’s exciting.

During sword practice, he quips back and forth with the kids and laughs whenever they take a jab at him. He’s light, easy, carefree. But you see how he holds back, the tension in his shoulder, the way the arc of his sword never fully finishes. So you wait until everybody leaves and he’s alone, with the training dummies and the setting sun. And you. Hiding.

He slashes through them and spears through their heads. You see it, the gnashing of his teeth, the sweat curling down his cheeks. There’s something there. A chasm he’s hopeless to fill.

Before you know it, you’re going out of your way to catch him training alone. It’s creepy, you know, and awful, you know, but the more you watch him the more you see a sort of violence scabbed under his skin.

Whenever you see him now, the feeling you get is entirely foreign to you. It’s almost . . . longing.

Wherever she is, you’re pretty sure Aphrodite’s having a cosmic fucking laugh. And you’re sure she’s laughing double tonight.

The Aphrodite cabin is hosting some secret party for the older counsellors. You’re definitely of age to be a counsellor, but you’ve never been made one because that would probably make half the campers drop out. Chiron and Mr. D don’t know what to do with you. You’re sure you’ll be kicked out of camp soon for good.

But you’re here anyways, for a reason you don’t want to admit, and you stay tucked in a corner as the world around you mingles. Luke is on the other side of the room, lovely as always, laughing with a few other counsellors. He brings a drink up to his lips, and you have a startling thought of what it would be like to kiss him. And you’re fucked. You’re so fucked. Because for the first time in your life you want something tangible, something real. You want to hear him and feel him and pry him apart, and a part of you wants him to actually see you, see all the awful things that might make you the same. You feel like a teenage girl with a crush, and it is infuriating.

An Aphrodite girl comes up to you with a foolish smile. “Hey, sorry, you want a drink?”

“Fuck off, you idiot,” you snarl.

You wait for her to leave. She doesn’t. “You know, you don’t have to be so mean all the time,” she says evenly. “If you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. So yes, I want to give you a drink.”

“Have you ever thought that I’m not being mean? Maybe I just am.”

You glare at her. She looks you up and down. “Sure,” she shrugs, walking away. There’s a vivid picture in your mind of her falling through a hole in the cabin floor. It doesn’t soothe you, but at least the fantasy is there.

The night drones on. You’re sick of the smells and the laughs and the heat. And you’re sick of yourself. You can’t believe, underneath all your sourness, you came here to stare at a boy you barely know, and you don’t even know why. He’s fascinating, and you resent him, and he’s also beautiful. But he’s looked back at you all of three times tonight and you’re sick of the way your skin crawls when he does.

Leaving the cabin brings the relief of the cool night air, and the singularity of your body. You are the only one who feels this rage. You are the only one who hates.

To stave off your discomfort you walk around to the back of the cabin, to the crest of the hill facing the water. The stars above twinkle at you in spite. There’s a bitterness in your throat you want to wash down with something worse (maybe you should have taken that drink), but you know it won’t matter. Nothing matters. Those stars and whatever they hide are apparently the only important things in the universe, so why should anyone care about anything?

They stars only get brighter. It’s probably their goal to piss you off. You grunt, “Oh, fuck you,” to them. It’s not enough, never nearly enough to expel the rotten part of you. “Fuck you. Fuck off!” You groan at the sky. Nothing happens. Until:

“I’m guessing you’re not having a fun night.”

You whirl around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but whatever light is left catches a long scar on a cheek. Your stomach knots.

“Yeah, me neither,” Luke Castellan says, hands in his pockets as he meanders towards you.

Even when he’s close enough, you don’t say anything. If you do, you’re afraid it’ll be something ugly. Like I kind of want to make out with you. Are you awful too? I need a lobotomy.

The thoughts almost make you laugh. Been a long time since you’ve been funny.

He nods at the sky. “Those things don’t talk. You do know that, right?” He’s still so captivating, so self-assured, even when there’s no one around but you.

“Gods, you’re the worst,” you scoff. You really mean it, so you can’t look him in the eye.

“Then why have you been staring at me all night?”

It catches you so off-guard that you whip back to face him. He has an eyebrow raised and the itch of a smile that makes you burn with shame. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He shrugs, leaning against the cabin wall. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been brooding in the corner watching me the second you came in.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Actually, you stare at me all the time. At meals and stuff. I really hope you don’t think you’re being subtle.”

You huff. “Okay, if we’re really being honest here, you started that! You do it too! All the time!”

His hands shot up like he was being arrested. “Hey, I never said I minded it. A guy’s . . . just gotta wonder. What’s up with you spying on me when I’m training alone, anyways?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You watch me when there’s nobody else around. I’m not blind. It’s weird. If you want tips you can just ask me. Or if you like what you’re looking at, at least be upfront about it.”

You speak before you can take in that last sentence, or the way his smile took pride in itself when he said it, or how embarrassed you should probably feel. “You didn’t answer my question about why you started staring at me first.”

The anger (shame) blinding you made you forget how close you are to him right now. Close enough to touch, but not enough to see. But almost there. Almost.

“People think you’re mean,” Luke says after a moment, his dark eyes probing you. The words curl out of his mouth slowly, like he’s choosing them all with care. “You’re rude. You never listen to anyone. You judge everything. They all think you’re awful.” Again, he looks you over. “I’m not so sure.”

“If I’m awful, then you’re awful,” you spit before he can say anything else.

He just shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m not sure.”

It’s irritating, his calmness. He has the same anger you do. How come he can just . . . shove it down? You try to unearth any fury in his eyes, but it’s too far back. Simmering. “Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re worse than me.”

He looks genuinely taken aback by this. His scar deepens when his brows wrinkle. “What?”

“You’re a pretender—that’s what you are.” It’s your turn now, to step closer, to make his skin crawl. “Look at you. Everyone loves you. You’re this perfect golden boy and you’re sweet and attentive and whatever the fuck but you know it’s one giant lie. At least I’m honest, but you just sit pretty and act like you don’t have that . . . thing that I have. Resentment. Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. We’re the same, but I’m the only one getting shit for it.”

Now, you are close enough to really see him. The patterns on the wood behind him frame the vision of his ever-shifting face. You realize that this, like most things are to Luke Castellan, is a challenge. You also can’t remember the last time you saw him lose one.

But when you play, you play to win.

“You don’t know that,” he dares.

“Oh, I do. You’re rotten, Castellan,” you sneer, index finger jabbed into his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate. “And you’re not owning up to it, so you’re also a coward.”

However scathing you look, it isn’t enough. If anything it only makes Luke’s manner more playful. Nothing feels playful anymore. Everything, inside and outside of your mind, feels like constant, exhausting war. Maybe that’s why you don’t slap his hand off you when it wraps around your wrist, keeping it pressed to the middle of his chest. His heartbeat thrums through you.

He tilts his face towards you, grinning, “Then why do you want to kiss me?”

All right. What the fuck. It feels like you’ve been electrocuted.

“What the—what are you talking about?” You blunder, but he knows, of course he knows, because there’s something between the two of you that has been formed and understood by eye contact alone. He can probably read your mind. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’d like to read his just as much.

He cocks his head. “I mean, you did call me pretty,” he teases, and it’s almost endearing. “You’re pretty like this too.” His other hand comes up to your face, and you’re surprised you don’t flinch when his thumb gently smooths the crease in your eyebrows. “Don’t call me a coward, heathen. Then we’ll both be embarrassed.”

The nickname makes you want to fight, but the touch makes you dizzy. “You don’t want to kiss me, Luke,” you say with all the control you have, which, right now, is increasingly sparse.

“You’ve gotta stop telling people what they want,” he muses. The hand on your wrist traces further down your forearm. The one on your face snakes around your hips. “One of your more disagreeable qualities.”

His words fan over you. That fire simmering in his eyes has finally come to the surface.

“One of?” You challenge.

“You let me make out with you and I’ll give you a whole list.”

You snort, hoping it hides the shortness in your breath. “What a charmer you are.”

His lips brush yours. “Well, that’s what makes me so rotten, isn’t it?”

There’s hardly time to unravel if that’s a question or a statement because you grab a fistful of his shirt and he kisses you. Your heart detonates. It is not rotten in the slightest.

His body is warm and firm. You smell the cabin wood and the drink on his breath. It all matters, and none of it does. You’re warm everywhere as he wraps both arms around your back, and the way he kisses is, unfortunately, exactly how you thought he would. Your hands are tentative in his hair. So is your mouth on his. But Luke is so deliberate in the way he kisses that you know he’s thought about this, too. It makes you all the warmer.

His hand takes your jaw and tilts it up. You know your neck is shaky with breath, and you’re pretty sure he’s admiring it. You don’t complain when he presses a kiss to your jaw, then another one, like he’s testing the waters. “You’re so nice like this,” he mutters almost to himself, thumb running across your neck. “If only people could see you.”

“Then they’d see how mean you are too, no?” You huff. “You don’t want that.”

Another kiss to your jaw. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Whatever feeling is harbouring in your body right now, it’s so fulfilling it almost makes you uncomfortable. You want to reject it. You’re not supposed to want things. Worse, you’re not supposed to get things. Luke starts marking a path down your neck and you are so determined to enjoy this that you’d kiss a fucking baby if someone asked you to. You might as well be a saint.

He bites the pulse point on your neck, sure to leave a mark, and a shudder rips through you. You’re pretty sure the bastard starts laughing. You hit his shoulder in retaliation.

“Easy, heathen,” he reprimands in your ear, and you know he’s still smiling.

“Don’t—don’t call me that.” You hate that you start to smile, too, and that your stomach burgeons with butterflies when he pulls back to look at you.

He touches the corner of your upturned mouth, kiss-bitten and red. His expression is boyish. “Hard to when it makes your face do that,” he goads. “I thought it was impossible for you to smile.”

“Be quiet.” You thread a hand through his camp necklace and bring him closer. You can almost taste his mouth on yours, but he sweeps past you at the last minute.

He gently tugs your earlobe with his teeth and whispers, “Yes ma’am.”

Fuck him. Seriously. You might have to.

It’s a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath his shirt and he does the same, and you’re both angry and greedy and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet. Now you’re just teenagers fooling around at the back of a party, and it’s the first good thing either of you have had in a long time. Luke leaves you gasping whenever his mouth hits certain places, maybe too many places, and he teases you accordingly. “So sensitive,” he taunts, pressing his knee between your legs so he can see you squirm. You rake your nails through his scalp and he tilts his head back to groan. It shuts him up for a while.

He bites your neck until you say his name. You trace lines on his stomach till he takes your hand in his own. You’ve been hungry for something your whole life, and you finally have something to sink your teeth into. For better or for worse.

After Hades knows how long, laughter floats out from the front of the cabin. Sounds of feet tripping over each other and muffled goodbyes. You pull away from Luke, chests heaving together. His hair is wild, his shirt crumpled, and he looks entirely satisfied with it. Smug little shit. “Party’s letting out,” you mutter.

“What a damn shame.” His hand rubs your jaw, and it’s too tender a gesture so you angle your head away to peek over the side of the cabin. You barely pay attention to the kids straggling back to their bunks.

“Is now the time you tell me all my horrible qualities?” You ask once you’re ready to look at him again.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Actually, I came up with more since I said that so I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than one night.” He fakes a wince, “Might have to spread it out for a few days.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh, you ass.”

“I’ll give you one for starters.” You feel like a tornado when he kisses the juncture between your jaw and your neck. “Your hands are too cold.” They’re tucked underneath his shirt right now, pressed against his back. You don’t move them. “And,” he adds, “you’re incredibly crass.”

“Thanks, dipshit.”

“Thank you for proving my point, heathen.”

The commotion at the front gets louder, and you know your time to go undiscovered runs short. “You meet me again tomorrow, and I start telling you the rest?” He raises his brows.

The prospect both repulses and excites you, although perhaps they’re hand-in-hand. You tentatively reach up to trace the scar on his face. A faint, jagged line that holds scripture within it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Even though I’m rotten?” You ask, and there’s an echo of mischief in your voice, too.

He’s got a strange expression when he looks at you. “That’s not true.”

He leans down, angles his head to kiss you. It’s slow, but bitter, and he bites down on your lip until you’re pretty sure there’s blood. “Luke,” you murmur, and he kisses you softer. You lean into him like a hapless, lovesick fool.

After you part, he loosens his grip on you. The bumbling campers have gotten louder. He stares at you, and you see the chasm in his eyes again, brimming with fire. Same as yours. You know you’ll see him tomorrow.

He says, “You’re not rotten. You’re right.”

And damn it, you really do believe him.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

SAGAU brainrot where after being hunted for being an "imposter" in Fontaine you escape to the sea, desperate for somewhere safe- or somewhere to die peacefully, the blood from your wounds seeping into the water and staining it red, then an odd glittering gold. it's blissfully silent under the waves, sea creatures flocking around and following you through the depths as you sink deeper and deeper, eyes finally having a chance to close after days of staying awake out of terror. there's a small, exhausted smile on your face, weak and dizzy from the blood loss but finally not being pursued, left alone to pass peacefully from this world you used to love so much.

but you don't die- instead you're awoken by a mournful echoing sound, the water around you sparkling and peculiar. you move your hand and the water moves with it, swirling into flowing designs like silk, cushioning your open wounds and soothing the sting. the echoing sound calls again, closer this time, and when you turn you meet the crystalline eye of a familiar face- Foul Legacy, adorned with fins and patches of scales from the influence of the Primordial Sea.

Legacy's eye widens at the site of you, his song changing from saddened to ecstatic, then fading as he takes in your wounds, just barely scabbed over and shining with gold. he whines, quickly swimming a circle around you and wrapping his tail around your legs- who dared to do this to you, the Creator? who dared lay a hand on your skin, tearing it so? he knows it's you, his Abyssal instincts soothed and calm in your divine presence, and Foul Legacy lets out a low growl at the thought of someone hurting you. but it quickly turns to a whimper when you flinch away, his claws hovering over your shoulders as he croons gently- you need rest and time to recover, and he gently wraps his arms around you as your eyes close, nudging his horned head against your cheek with a sweet purr, the first kindness you've experienced in Teyvat.

together you sink further into the Primordial Sea, away from the ignorance and hatred of the surface above, and Teyvat falls silent once more.

[darlingkikki]

wait need a 141 scare actors x reader blurb

Synopsis: A horror night worker sees you and gives his men a task; make sure you leave smiling. Pairing: TF141!Scare Actors x GN!Reader (first meeting vibes so nothing too crazy but Kyle’s too great for me to keep it lowkey lmao) Word Count: 3.6k (I think) Warnings: negative self-talk, reader is very lonely (reasons up to you) a/n: Let me know if I missed any warnings or did not keep it gender-neutral and I will fix it <3. You gave me the green light and you will pay dearly for how badly I wish I were a better writer. Happy Halloween!

A man with an interesting mustache and beard combo greets you at the gates.

“Admission for one?” He asks, glancing over your shoulder to check that your friends or partner aren’t lagging. 

The question pokes at the part inside of you that recoils into your shell when others notice how alone you are, the forever raw wound that no positive affirmations or small bouts with talk therapists have been able to scab over. It’s constantly bleeding, oozing thoughts in voices you both recognize and don’t. They cover a wide variety, though they lead back to you, a homing missile locked onto your actual self and not the warped beyond-recognition version they are about. The version no one who knows you sees. You’ve been told you’re actually not that bad; you’re still stuck on why they used the word actually in something meant to be complimentary. 

One therapist (the one you felt could help, but they decided a job in another state was more important than your problems), said that the best way to combat these thoughts is to fight them, think louder and harder in the opposite direction, even if you think you’re lying to yourself. So, that’s what you did. You psyched yourself up in the mirror for the better part of an hour as you pulled on your costume and repeated to yourself that this was normal. 

Why should an infamous horror night be such a big deal? People go out alone all the time.

“Yep,” you say with a forced smile. It’s enough, but it doesn’t feel like enough. So, you over-explain because your mouth never knows when to quit. “I love going to these alone, really puts me in the Halloween mood.” 

The man tilts his head to one side, observing that slight pinch of your expression. Your voice is light and measured. And that smile. You’re performing. Everything about this is fake, everything about you is fake, a mask worn when the switch in your brain flips to ‘social interaction mode’, so strangers think of you in a certain way. You want him to know you’re not the least bit insecure about being alone. Not at all. The distant sounds of screaming and laughter inside the park don’t carve into you like an ice pick.

You’re not fooling him—no one can, as far as he’s concerned. He’s posted at the entrance for a reason, not because he’s grown too old to run around and scare people with grotesque makeup or prop weapons. He’s an assessor through and through. One brief conversation and he knows whether someone will be a good sport or one of those rude assholes that think it’s cool to scream back at the actors or posturing snobs who shit all over their efforts. You may be lying to him and yourself, but you won’t be a problem. 

Something about you reminds him of someone. He draws the comparison only after you school your smile to a blank expression. You have smile lines around your mouth, evidence that the muscles aren’t under-used, he just wonders how many are genuine. 

You’re still staring at him as he extends his hand towards you, palm up. 

“Give it here,” he orders and gestures towards your own, which has been clutching the fabric of your costume as if you think it’s trying to escape.

You stretch out your fingers, persuading them to relax and hold out your clammy hand so he can press a stamp down on the back of it. The design glows a bright lavender when light catches it at a certain angle, indecipherable enough that you can’t figure out exactly what it says or depicts. You’re about to pull away when he stamps you again. You don’t ask why, assuming it’s because the first was too light or smudged. With a gentle parting squeeze, your hand is your own again. You start towards the exit as he’s stuffing the stamp back into his pocket. 

He speaks again just as you’re about to be past his shoulder. His voice is soft but gritty like a smoker's. “You have yourself a hell of a night, alright?” 

“Yes, Sir.” You curse yourself for your unnecessary use of the title as you make it past the entrance to the park. You don’t know why you called him that, but it makes more sense than it should. He has a natural ability to garner respect, you felt it even in that brief interaction. He chuckles, rough and deep, as he pulls his phone out to make do with his mission.

You take a break from screaming and scurrying away from zombies and slashers to do something fun.

And what’s more fun than blowing too much money on playing carnival games until you win one of the large plushies? It seems easy enough after the woman running the stand explains the game to you—until you’ve sunk twenty bucks into it and only manage one ring on a bottle. The others have bounced off and landed on the ground. 

The stares of the wide-eyed plushies feel less like they’re cheering you on and more like they’re mocking you. Are you seriously playing a child’s game alone? And losing? Why? So you can win a dumb stuffed animal? You’ll leave here the same way you came and you deserve it.

There’s no way one is even worth the amount that you've lost so far. You’re ready to throw in the towel when you sense something behind you. 

It shouldn’t be something that spells danger, not with the woman who has been pocketing your money standing just a few feet away, but your body seems to ignore that fact and react as though Michael Myers himself is lurking behind you. 

You whirl around and your bones turn to ice when you find yourself face-to-chest with a tall, imposing figure. You’re too aghast to scream, mind-body connection severed, you’re left gaping up at the man like a fish out of water. He can’t have been there long, but you’ve been so caught up in the game that he could’ve been standing behind you the entire time. 

The man does not react to your fear, just meets you with an uncomfortably realistic-looking skull mask and unblinking eyes. His posture is rigid, like one of the decorative scarecrows you saw near the entrance. His eyes rake over your body in a way that reminds you of an x-ray, lingering on something for a prolonged moment. Whatever he sees, it pushes him to speak to you. 

“This one’s fuckin’ awful.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, dark pools glinting with humor, but you’re too busy trying to calm your racing heart to respond. He’s used to people being afraid of him beyond the context of working at events like this, so he steps around you and picks up the pile of rings on the table. You press a trembling hand to your chest and take deep, pacifying breaths.

In and out, you tell yourself, over and over, until your heartbeat no longer resembles the sound of galloping horses. In the time it takes you to collect your bearings, he's thrown each ring over the tops of three bottles effortlessly. Anxiety dissolves into confusion, even more when he turns to you and then jerks his head towards the higher shelves, ignoring the slightly annoyed woman behind the counter. She was probably hoping you’d spend another couple of dollars.

“Oh.” Confusion melts into realization. Your lips curl upwards, but something still doesn’t feel right. He’d broken character to help you for seemingly no reason. “Thank you, but you didn’t need to-” 

“Already did. Pick the one you want.”

His insistence is sharp but harmless equally. The prize is yours, so no use in trying to out-polite the man. 

When you look back at the shelves, it’s with a radiant smile. Even though you hadn’t exactly won one yourself, the kindness of the skull-faced stranger was enough to silence your worries. The perfect one picks you before you pick it. There’s a lone skeleton with cutesy eyes and a squishy body surrounded by a sea of adorable plush pumpkins and black cats. You point to it and the woman behind the counter hands it over with a half-hearted “congrats”. The stranger in the mask smiles at your choice, though you’re not looking at him. When you’re done giving testing squeezes to the plushie, you turn to the man to thank him again, but he’s nowhere to be found, gone just as quietly as he’d appeared.

Sometime later, plushie in your arms, you find the line for a walk through the cornfield. It winds around plastic dividers like a snake, but what else can you expect from the major attraction when the night is in full swing? You join the line, picking at the white tag sewn into the leg of your plushie. There’s a couple in front of you dressed in matching costumes; they decide the wait is the perfect time to get reacquainted with one another. A worker ropes off the divider so no one else can enter and the distracted group of friends in front of the couple doesn’t notice or care about them, so no one else accompanies you in the awkwardness of listening to smacking lips and affectionate hums. Bitterness swells in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pill without water. Stroking the soft underbelly of your prize helps—somewhat. You think about the sweet, albeit intense, scare actor until the giggling couple with now identically smudged makeup walks hand-in-hand through the entrance.

There is little to no light inside of the field. The brightest thing is the moonlight, which makes walking down the dirt path between corn stalks an even more eerie experience. It’s almost peaceful, ignoring the creepy props lining the paths and the random actors hidden in the stalks itching to grab at your ankles or jump out at you (three have accosted you so far). And soon to be a fourth as corn rustles in front of you, leaf blades bouncing off each other harsher than when skimmed by the wind. 

Another couple of steps and a man in a bloody burlap sack-like mask pops out with outstretched arms and a loud “boo” to top it all off—you yelp, nearly dropping your plushie on the ground.

The man responds with a laugh, infectious and warm, before tugging off his mask. Odd, you think, because none of the other actors had prolonged the interaction after leaving you short of breath. Well, none but one.

“I’m Kyle,” he introduces himself, flashing a disarming smile. It’s dazzling, you almost miss him holding out a hand. “Sorry for…you know, just doin’ my job and all.”

Without the disturbing mask, he’s quite pretty, the kind that makes you immediately comply and give him both your right hand and name. Your stamps glow under the moonlight, and he sighs in relief, shoulders relaxing. He thought you’d have left by now.

“Nice meeting you,” he says, bowing at the waist. 

He’s prince-levels of charming, much too relaxed for the environment. His costume is more normal than scary without the mask, just a deep red tunic and dark-wash jeans. You can make out small bits of hay stuck to his hair and clothes. It makes for a dorky and cute visual. 

He does not slink back into the corn as the actors before him did. Instead, he straightens, making a face at the stuffed animal you’re holding.

“You win that for yourself?” 

“Tried to, but one of the actors ended up helping me, actually.”

He quirks a brow. “You pick it because it looks like him?”

You don’t know how he guessed so quickly, but you nod, sheepish that he’d caught you clutching it so protectively, like you were holding a dear gift from a loved one. 

It’s just a stupid toy a stranger won for you. Won for you. You hold it tighter.

Kyle shakes his head, muttering “smart bastard” under his breath and then his eyes are on you. He has that deep shade of brown that’s impossible to say no to.

“The way to the exit can be a bit borin’,” he explains, his lips pursed in thought. “You alright with some company?”

And now you’re even more confused. Was he even allowed to? And why would he care if you’re bored?

“Will you get in trouble?” You ask, glancing towards the quiet path, trying to gauge how long you’d be pulling him away from his job. From what he’s saying, you can assume the exit is near, but you can’t see it from here.

“Nah, you were the last one coming through, so I’m free to roam,” he shrugs, stepping out of your way so you can walk side-by-side.

You soon discover Kyle is even more of a gem than you’d initially realized. He's more than just a beautiful person to look at, he’s funny, and more friendly with you than strangers ought to be. He asks about you. You don’t know what to say at points, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When your voice wavers or your tongue fumbles, he’s patient. He’s genuinely interested, actually listening, and those pools of brown are as distracting as you thought because soon you’re walking underneath the cobweb-decorated archway signaling the end of the walk.

Your heart clenches. You’re not ready for your night to be over. You’re not prepared for your time with Kyle to be over, to face that tonight has been one of the few times you’ve been the target of considerate treatment and could very well be the only time.

You miss the reflected disappointment in his features because a harsh sound cuts through the air, similar to the rev of a car engine. Then it happens again, just as cacophonic followed by maniacal laughter, and a large man barrels through the corn so quickly you scream and nearly fall over into Kyle’s arms. 

“Fuckin’ hell ‘Tavish, you nearly killed my new friend here,” Kyle laughs, patting you on the back. Reassurance. You’re in no danger. 

The chainsaw wielder lets the act go rather quickly, lowering it to the ground and regarding you with a mischievous grin. 

“Just doin’ my job,”—the man waves off the accusation—“Not my fault Price chose a screamer.”

You squint at the man who’d nearly given you a heart attack. Price chose you? Who’s Price? Kyle claps the man on the back of the head. They interact as old friends, brothers. 

“Sorry,” Kyle turns to you, apologetic. “Should’ve warned you about the main event. Got a bit distracted.”

In fairness, you were too. You don’t mention that it was because of his eyes..

“Apology accepted,” you say, “Though your friend is on thin ice.”

“Me?” The man in question scoffs like you’ve accused him of a grave sin. His lips press together to keep his laughter at bay, though he’s got about as much tact as the hair on his head, which is shaved on both sides, leaving a strip of hair down the middle. He’s cocky, you can sense that. Cocky people are to you what salt is to a snail, though Kyle doesn’t seem the type to surround himself with the bad kind, so you try not to curl in on yourself.

“Not jus’ his friend,” he says, sending you a wink, “I’m John, Johnny if yer feelin’ brave.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and nudges you with his shoulder to get you walking towards the park exit, a straight shot from the cornfield. “Come on, we don’t need to take this.” 

“You scared me too,” you remind him as Johnny takes up the space on your left side, “Don’t think I forgot about that.”

He snorts, “Touche.”

“A screamer an’ not afraid to knock you down a peg,” Johnny notes, “I like ‘em already.” He hasn’t stopped staring at the side of your face. You wipe your hand across your cheek in case something is on it. 

The walk through the park is quiet, save for Johnny and Kyle throwing friendly jabs at one another. Most people have already left; the last few actors send looks in your direction and carnival game runners are shutting off their lights and closing down for the night.

“You have fun tonight?” Johnny asks you once the parking lot comes into view. Only a handful of clusters of cars remained in contrast to when you’d arrived.

The most fun you’ve had in a while. You’ve grown used to that heavy chunk of loneliness sitting in your chest like a rock. You drag it around behind you, a life sentence. Let it tether to your emotions and bog them down, anchoring your feet in some instances and letting the ground swallow you whole in others. You’re going home with a small part carved out. A crevice where something less bitter and more sweet can wedge itself in and find a home, spreading far and wide if you’re lucky.

The two exchange toothy grins when you respond positively, a cheerful smile cracking your face open for them to see. The look withholds a meaning that you aren’t privy to. Price was right, as always. A special someone deserved more smiles tonight, and they’d accomplished their mission.

“Found you any earlier an’ I would’ve won you one of those too,”—Johnny gestures to your plushie—“Ah’ve got an arm on me, a mean one when it comes to the bottle toss.”

Kyle and you roll your eyes. You assume the people in his life have grown quite comfortable doing so. Your initial descriptor of cocky was accurate, but he’s endearingly cocky in a way that doesn’t put you off too much. 

“Watch it, the big guy will take your head off,” Kyle warns.

“He’s not even here. I can say wha’ I want.”

“He’s right behind you.”

“Nah, he’s—” Johnny spins around and gasps, similar to how you’d reacted earlier, though he is a bit more dramatic. “Steamin’ Jesus, where’d you come from?”

You turn as well, hoping it’s who you’re thinking, and it is. The man who’d won you the plushie you’re holding.

He looks at you in the same way as before, though his imposing figure seems more relaxed than it had been. You presume these men are all friends. They seem comfortable enough around each other to be.

“Price wants to see us,” he says, his deep voice rolling from his chest the way water does over the smoothed rock on the bank of a river. You can hear it much clearer now that your heartbeat isn’t thrumming in your ears. 

“Can it wait?” Kyle glances towards you. “Wanted to make sure they made it out alright.”

Another chip at that loneliness, but you don’t want to jeopardize anything with him and Price—who you assume is his boss—even if you’d prefer he continues lessening the weight holding you down beneath your rib cage.

“You’ve done enough, Kyle,” you say, pointing behind you with your free hand, “I can see my car from here, anyway. I’ll be fine.”

“We cannae let ‘em go without makin’ sure, Simon,” Johnny insists, echoing Kyle’s sentiment and steamrolling over your assurance. 

Simon, finally a name for the face, or at least the parts of it you can see. Kyle and Johnny had shed their costumes, yet he wears his like a second skin. His stiff demeanor from earlier seems more of a costume than anything he’s wearing. 

Simon glances over your shoulder to where you’d pointed, dark eyes impossible to read. Johnny turns up the dial on his charm. At least that’s what you think he’s doing when he gives Simon a wide-eyed, puppy-like expression, pressing his palms together in front of his face and tipping his head forward. The picture would be complete if he sunk onto his knees with a bible in his hands.

He has the energy of the youngest son in the family. The visual brings a laugh tumbling from your lips and Simon relents, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Go on then, we’ll watch from here.”

So you do, waving at the group, who murmur their goodbyes, and then walking to your car. 

You walk slower than you need to, relishing in the experience of people wanting to ensure you made it anywhere safe. It’s a luxury. You strive for it like people dream about vacationing or owning a house. Unfortunately, time stands still for no one.

Chancing a look at the group of men as you climb into the driver’s seat, you find six pairs of eyes. Kyle smiles broadly, you get another wink and smirk from Johnny, and Simon blinks at you from behind his mask. You barely know them and yet their reactions are all so distinctly them. You beam, holding up the plush skeleton and waving one last time like an Olympic athlete holding up their medals before resting it on the passenger's seat.

Alone again, you push your key into the ignition and your car comes to life. The dashboard bathes everything in a golden glow. Come morning, when you’re bathed in a similar hue by the rising sun, you’ll think about this night. You’ll think about them, each of them, and you’ll wonder. Hugging your prize from the night, you will implant the memory into the grooves of your brain, where it can sit safe and snug, just as looked after as you’d been. You’ll wonder if any of them will end up in your life again, and hope the answer to that question is ‘yes’.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter One: it's not easy—living on borrowed time

tw: none

Six years later. 

The most important lesson you have ever learned is that if you want to keep your sanity, you need to keep your hands moving. 

If your hands were still, the humming of the washers and dryers would reverberate too viciously through your bones until they splintered and cracked. The buzzing of the cheap laundromat lights would suffocate your hearing entirely until your head felt full of bees. If your hands were still, you would have to think too much about the unmarked envelope sitting in your lap—even worse, you’d have to think about the person coming to pick it up. You are too pusillanimous to face the world at face value. 

Your distraction of choice is cat’s cradle; a silly game that consists of playing with string. You wrap the red yarn—which you had snagged from a craft store once upon a time ago—around your fingers, creating simple designs that begin to morph into one another as your fingers weave together. The fluid movement of your hands looks like fish dancing in turbulent water as you move from one formation to the next. It’s a practiced motion. One you could do in your sleep. However, no matter how often you move from the soldier’s bed to the candle sticks, every now and then you end up with a knot in the center of the design. 

It’s supposed to be a simple move. A gentle dropping of your fingers as you straighten the yarn with your left hand. But you always end up ruining it somehow. Hands well versed in mistakes, no amount of practicing can erase the fact that errors are intertwined with your DNA. 

The noise of the city suddenly grows to a thundering roar as the laundromat door opens to allow entrance to another patron. Eyes locked onto the string in your hands, you try not to pay attention to the fact that this man enters without any clothes to wash. Of course, there’s always the small hope that he’s there to switch an ongoing load, but you know better than that. 

Despite the fruitful amount of empty benches that litter the building, you find the spot on your left filled with this man’s presence. The scent of him washes over you in a suffocating wave as his arm rests along the back of the bench behind you. While his cologne smells expensive, he wears it as if it’s as cheap as water, and the sillage is enough to sear your nostrils. 

“You still haven’t shown me how to play that,” he purrs, disregarding any formal greeting. His voice sounds muffled against your eardrum—you fight the urge to turn to face him in order to hear him better. 

As you unwind the string from your fingers, you ignore the way his hand brushes against your thigh as he grabs the unmarked envelope from your lap. He’s always touchy like this. As if you’ve known each other your whole lives. Each lingering brush leaves your skin itching, but you know better than to say anything about it. Marco—your unwanted friend—is not known for his patience. 

“Maybe some other time,” you say softly; a sentiment that only makes him chuckle. 

As you shove the string into the pocket of your jeans, Marco gets to work on opening the envelope. There’s a small wad of notes shoved inside; ones he eagerly counts. You spare a cautious glance at him, noting his acid washed jeans and scraped knuckles. The scabs are puffy and new, and the old blood sends your stomach twisting. 

“Perfect, as usual,” he quips. 

Shoving the envelope into the pocket of his jumper, Marco stands from the bench with a heavy sigh. You want him to leave. You can’t wait to watch him walk back out the door so you can be alone once more to play your stupid game of string, but he doesn’t. Instead, he continues to stand in front of you with his hands in his pockets. Prompting you to look up at him, he gently kicks the side of your foot. Verdant eyes pierce through you like a cat that’s caught sight of prey. You hate to admit how enchanting he is. Really, with a jawline as sharp as his, and dark hair to frame it, he could have been a model. 

If only it weren’t for his vices. 

“You’ve been pretty good at making full payments,” Marco comments. His eyes glance over your body as if he can caress you with his gaze alone, and once again you find your skin tingling. No amount of good looks can erase the fact that he’s just as filthy and slimy as usual. “My offer’s still on the table if you find yourself having trouble though.” 

Solicitude weighs on your shoulders as if you’ve become Atlas holding up the mass of the earth. Your eyes begin to flutter as if Marco would vanish from your view between blinks like a magician or ghost. He continues to stand; he persists like an infection. The smirk on his lips screams at you that he’s enjoying this—watching you squirm. He drinks up the fear in your eyes like it’s his favorite brand of mead. 

“No thanks,” you say hardly above a whisper. 

Shrugging, Marco takes a step back. “Alright. Well, you know where to find me when your luck runs out, babe.” 

When Marco leaves, you’re finally free to cast your gaze back to the tile floor. It’s odd that you find the grime significantly easier to look at than him—there’s at least some sort of art to be found in smudged shoe prints and spilt detergent. Yet it does nothing to quell the anxiety rising in your chest. Most days, this feeling constricts your heart to the point you swear it shouldn’t be able to pump at all, and still you endure. You’re able to for the next month at least. 

It’s not easy—living on borrowed time. 

Just when you’re ready to leave this wretched place, your phone begins to buzz in your pocket. While retrieving it, the string you play cat’s cradle with tumbles out and plops onto the floor. It stares at you as if to make fun of you—as if to remind you that your only comfort is a stupid piece of string. Sighing, you reach down to grab it while you read the caller ID on screen. 

Incoming call from Captain Jack Sparrow 🏴‍☠️

“Hello?” you answer. 

“Hey!” Aelin’s chipper voice hums through the line. “I just wanted to double check and see if you’re still coming to dinner tonight?”

Aelin Price is your closest—and only—friend. Even through the phone you can envision her sweet smile and the slight tilt of her head as she speaks. Having known her since you were a kid, Aelin has grown to be somewhat of a sister to you. Doting on you like a sibling, calling you weekly, and insisting on seeing you at least monthly; sometimes it feels as if she’s more of a mother than anything else. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you reply with a soft chuckle. 

“Good! Do you need a ride? John should be leaving work any minute if you need him to pick you up,” Aelin suggests. 

“No, that’s alright. I’ve got a few things I need to finish up, so I’ll just take the bus.” 

“Alright, well if you change your mind just let me know. I’ll make him turn around if you need,” Aelin teases. “Okay, well that’s all I wanted to know. I love you, and I’ll see you soon!”

The smallest of smiles paints your lips. “See you in a bit.” 

When the line dies, the rigid tension plaguing your body only seems to grow. All of your social energy has been expended after dealing with Marco, but you still have a dinner to go to. Usually your dinners with Aelin and her husband are fine, but when you were first invited you were informed some of John’s work associates will be tagging along, which means more people to meet. Maybe you should have said no. Made up some excuse as to why you couldn’t attend. 

If it had been any other day besides today, it would have been easier, but you can’t afford to draw suspicion. Aelin can sniff out a problem like it’s a bad wound. 

With a sigh, you stand from that uncomfortable bench and slide your phone back into your pocket. The glass doors of the laundromat show the hoards of pedestrians mingling outside in the October air, and you find yourself swallowing at the sight. With a final glance around the building, you swiftly exit empty handed. How odd it is leaving a laundromat without any clothes to take home. 

You never do laundry on the 25th of the month. 

After a short stop by your dilapidating apartment for a change of clothes—ones that don’t have Marco’s cologne lurking in the threads—you find yourself on an uncomfortably crowded bus during the busiest time of day. It will take you the better part of half an hour to make it to Aelin’s house, but you don’t mind. Despite the mass of fleshy bodies caging you into your seat, all you have to do is stare out the window and lose yourself in the scenery. 

It’s grounding being the observer. Stuck in some sort of in between—only being able to watch, unable to be touched. It’s safer this way. 

Usually. 

Eventually the concrete and glass buildings soften into something more colorful and natural. Golden trees wave in the chilly October breeze and you watch their leaves fall like raindrops, covering the ground in a saffron blanket. When the bus finally reaches your stop, you are greeted by the gentle aroma of old rain and wet leaves. The redolence continues to follow you as you walk down the cracked pavement towards Aelin’s house. 

Both her and her husband are very well off and live in a neighborhood that represents this fact well. Perfectly manicured lawns, pristine paneling, and fresh paint seems to be the trademark feature on every home you pass. It’s a stark but welcoming difference from what you’re used to within London with its chipped brick and peeling wallpaper. Still, as you trek over unmarred pavement, you can’t help but think about how out of place you are here—a stay animal lost among the rich. 

You reach the house just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. The pale grey hue of the afternoon contrasts with the warm glow of the kitchen lights bleeding through the sheer curtains that obscure the windows. Several unfamiliar vehicles—including a motorcycle, which seems absurd—park in an odd pile in the driveway, and you find yourself swallowing at the numbers you count. Even though you’ve shown up ten minutes early, it seems like everyone else has already arrived. Perhaps you should have taken that ride from John after all, because the thought of walking into a crowded home with all eyes on you has you grimacing. 

You’ll just have to grit your teeth and bear it. 

After steadying yourself with a deep breath, you approach the door with as much faux confidence as you can muster before knocking. Over the years, you have become quite good at concealing the anxiety that often wracks your brain. Even when your thoughts get the better of you, it rarely shows on your face. It’s perhaps the only talent you have. When living with an untamable beast for so long, you often have no choice but to get good at yanking back on the leash. 

Moments later, the door opens with a click. Aelin’s beaming smile nearly blinds you as she stands in the doorway. Curled blonde locks cascade down her shoulders in a waterfall of sunlight, framing her flushed cheeks with golden strands. Arms spread wide, she welcomes you into the house with a bone crushing hug just as the warmth of the kitchen begins to swaddle and dethaw your aching fingers. Boisterous laughter booms from somewhere deeper in the house, but it’s quickly drowned out by Aelin’s melodious giggle. 

“I’m so glad you could make it!” she exclaims as she leads you through the entrance. “I know you’ve been really busy with work and all.” 

“I traded shifts with one of the other hostesses, so it’s not a big deal,” you politely excuse. 

“Of course. God forbid they give you a proper day off,” Aelin chuckles sourly. “But you came just in time! John and I just finished cooking, and the boys are already here if you wanna grab a seat in the dining room with me.” 

Once upon a time, you used to live in this house. When you were younger, of course. Fresh out of grade school, Aelin and John had welcomed you into their home with open arms, so you don’t exactly need to be coddled anymore when it comes to navigating through the rooms. Still, she insists on leading you through the kitchen—where John gives you a polite wave—and into the dining room where a small party waits patiently in their seats. 

Several servings of food already adorn the rectangular table, each in their own precious dish. There’s an empty spot toward the center of the table where waxed mahogany waits to greet the main course. Plates, cutlery, and glasses of water sit at each of the six chairs lining the table—three of which are already occupied by unfamiliar faces. 

Aelin makes introductions simple and quick as the two of you take your seats. First, there’s a man she calls Johnny. You vaguely recognize his voice as one of the louder ones you first heard when you came in, and he’s just as smiley as his laughter would have you believe. A messy, flattened mohawk sits on his head, and several silver piercings adorn the shell of his ears with a silver glint. You note the Scottish accent and appropriate tattoos.

Then, there’s Kyle—a handsome man dressed in an ironed shirt and slacks, he greets you with a kind nod of his head. Though he’s quieter than the man on his right, his voice is smooth and buttery as he tosses joking insults Johnny’s way; ones the man returns in kind with a devious grin. 

Then, there’s Riley. 

He’s easily one of the largest men you’ve ever seen, and awkwardly intimidating as he sits in the chair on your left. Slight hints of tattoos poke out underneath his sleeves, and there are a few scars on his face that line up with the unnatural curve of his nose. His eyes are piercing and dark enough to send your stomach twisting, but that agita eases as he gives you a small smile. 

When you breathe in, you smell the faint spice of cigarettes—you’re grateful it’s not cologne. 

“Boys, this is Chip,” Aelin introduces. 

The ceremonious use of your nickname nearly makes you cringe, yet you attempt to keep an even face as you give them a lubberly nod. Really, you should be used to it by this point. Chip. That name follows you everywhere—even the cooks at work call you it. 

“Thanks Row,” you fire back beneath your breath. 

She gives you a crafty grin. 

None of the men get the chance to ask about your true name before John enters the dining room ready to serve the main course. Perfectly roasted chicken breast sits in the center of the table as everyone begins to pass around food like you’re at a feast for a king. Buttered rolls, fragrant greens, creamy mash; your mouth waters to the point you nearly drool. 

Dinner goes just how you expect it to. Everyone converses around you while you keep your eyes on your plate and pick at your food bit by bit. Cotton muddles the neurons in your brain. Each word spoken seems to blend together as you attempt to focus on the conversation, yet fall terribly short from doing so. You feel like a kitchen towel—wrung out and fraying at the edges. You speak when someone asks you a question, and even occasionally give your input when prompted, but otherwise your mind seems to derail. 

Nothing but a runaway train, your thoughts seem to wander back to Marco. You can still feel his hand graze against your thigh. How the heat of him melts into your skin. His arm around your back. The smell of him. Desperate fingers itch to retrieve the string burning a hole through your pocket, but you bite that discomfort away and attempt to be a contributing conversationalist. 

The aimless discussion is entertaining, at the very least. Friendly banter sparks between the men; inside jokes you don’t quite understand, and several Scottish expressions from Johnny that are quickly met by Kyle jokingly telling him to speak English. Even Aelin chips in with her own fiery humor that leaves the boys poking fun at one another, seemingly surprised that the boss’s wife has such a big bite.

Yet, your attention keeps returning to the large figure on your left. Perhaps it's the scars on his face, or the tattoos playing peek-a-boo by his wrists, but there’s something about him that whispers. He gives you an odd feeling you can’t name. In a way, he mirrors you. Quiet, only speaking when it fits the conversation—you’re not sure if you should fear him or be intrigued by him. 

You don’t realize you’re gawking at him until his gaze meets yours from the corner of his eyes. Darker than the night sky, his stare pierces through you like he can read every scratch on your soul. A fiery heat licks up your spine, and shame settles deep in your chest as you quickly glance back at your empty plate. There’s no food for you to poke at, yet you still tap your fork against the china. 

“Price,” Johnny’s voice booms as he leans back in his chair. “I heard you got yourself a new pool table. 

John wipes his mouth off on his napkin before haphazardly tossing it onto his plate. “This your way of asking to play a round?”

“Might be,” Johnny grins. 

Chuckling, John stands from his seat and begins to gather everyone’s plate. He balances them on his forearm as he nods towards the far end of the room. “Alright, but I don’t want any of you muppets scratching up the felt, yeah?” 

“It was only one time! And I haven’t had anything to drink tonight,” Johnny defends. 

“Wasn’t gonna name names, MacTavish,” John grins. 

“What about you, Chip?”

Surprised to hear your name, your ears perk up as you stare at Kyle. He sips on his glass of water as he waits for your response with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh—uhm—I’ve never really played before,” you mutter. 

“That’s alright. Riley’s a good teacher,” Johnny insists while nodding to the man next to you. 

Your mouth opens to protest, but you can’t think of an excuse. A breathy laugh escapes your lips as you place your fork down and risk a quick glance at Riley. 

“Well… I guess I can play a game or two.” 

The dim lights in the garage illuminate the green felt of the pool table like it’s an interrogation victim. Multicolored pool balls are racked into a perfect triangle while the boys chalk up their sticks, sprinkling the floor with blue dust. Riley—who apparently is the master at pool—is the one invited to take the first shot. The crisp sound of the cue ball whacking against the others makes your ears ring as the triangle disperses like buckshot across the table. 

One by one, the boys take turns making their shots and you find yourself watching over them like a hawk. You note hand placement, how they lean across the table, the way they line up their shots; all of it. Yet when your turn comes around, you don’t feel any more confident than you did at the beginning. It should be easy enough. The cue ball lines up perfectly with the purple stripe 12 yet you can’t seem to position yourself correctly. The stick feels awkward, and your hand wavers too much to make a clean shot. 

An awkward laugh expels past your lips—you’re ready to throw in the towel before you’ve even started. 

“Here,” Riley says, leaning his cue stick against the table. 

His warmth suddenly engulfs you as he stands with his chest brushing against your back. It takes everything in you not to boil alive under his touch as he guides your hands into position along the table and stick. Fingers brushing against yours, he directly moves your body rather than simply explaining it to you. Everything feels more stable—your hands, your arms, your torso—except for your knees. They’re watery. Nothing but jello as Riley’s breath fans across your right ear. 

“Steady, yeah? Strike right here in the center, but angle a bit to the left,” he guides.

Eventually, his hands slide off of you and he’s no longer crowding you from behind. The sudden absence of his warmth leaves your mind reeling as you attempt to get the table in front of you to come into focus. A ringing rattles in your ear as you take a deep breath. You can still feel the ghost of his hand over yours—large, rough, and heavy. 

Staying as steady as you can manage with a swirling brain, you make your shot. A sharp clack sends the cue ball flying wonky across the table, but it still strikes, hitting lucky number 12 into its pocket. A series of celebratory whoops escape the boys as they mutter over zealous congratulations your way. Sheepishly, you look down at your feet as you tap your stick against the tip of your shoe. 

“Nice shot,” Riley murmurs as he passes by with a squeeze of your shoulder. 

Heat rises in your face at his touch, and you pray these lights aren’t bright enough to illuminate the perspiration gathering on the underside of your jaw. “All thanks to you, Riley.” 

Smirking, Riley stays silent as he leans over the table for his turn. Thick fingers guide his cue along the table—it looks like a twig in the palm of his hands. Thick skin and muscles force his shirt to tighten along his shoulders as he hits his shot, easily pocketing yet another ball before he straightens himself. His attention is on you as he leans against the table. All on you—with those same dark eyes that have caught you sneaking glances at him all night. He gives you another quick once over before tilting his head slightly. 

“Just Simon to you, sweetheart.” 

The rest of the evening goes just as well as it could have. Electricity hums throughout your body, buzzing in your fingertips like you’ve had too much to drink. A fuzzy lightness plagues your head as you and the boys play a few more games underneath the watchful eyes of John and Aelin as they clean up the dining room. By the time everyone sets aside their sticks you feel as if you’ve been through the wringer. Flattened, and sapped of all you’re worth. You’re not sure if there’s any merit to the games you won tonight—certainly of no thanks to you—yet Simon still thanks you as if you were an actual contributor rather than a glorified spectator. 

“You feeling alright?” Aelin asks. 

The gentle hum of her car nearly lulls you to sleep in the passenger’s seat, and you find yourself chirring in confusion at your friend’s question. It takes a moment for her words to cut through the cotton in your brain. Nodding, you lean back against the seat as you watch the view pass you by. It’s well past dark by now. The lights of London snuff out the stars in the sky, but you still attempt to squint through the smog to look at them. 

“Yeah. Sorry. Meeting new people gets a little exhausting,” you sigh. It’s a half-truth. The other piece is buried deep in your chest where it twists like an old splinter begging to free itself from your skin. 

“Oh, I understand. My sweet little introvert,” she teases. “You seemed to get along well enough with them. They get a little rowdy sometimes, but they’re good men.” 

Your only response is a nod in agreement before the conversation dies just as quickly as it began. Callosity gnaws at the back of your mind like a rodent. It’s all sharp teeth and smacking lips. Something within you urges you to keep the conversation going, but you’re quite daft in that area. Of talking. Of connecting. 

The stretch of silence is short before it dies. “What are you doing Saturday night?” 

You sniff as the car comes to a red light. “Working.” 

“Per usual,” Aelin mutters. “What time do you get off?” 

“Midnight, if I’m lucky.” 

“Wanna come to the Halloween party they’re throwing at Terminus?” 

Every cell in your body screams at the very thought of stepping foot into that place. You’ve been there more times than you’ve cared to go—it’s easy for Aelin to drag you along when you give into her puppy dog eyes, and admittance is free considering John owns the club. Still, the stentorian rumble of nightclubs aren’t for you. There’s too many people. Too many eyes and ears—dull teeth waiting to rip you open. Even here in the car you can smell the sour alcohol and sweat; feel the blistering heat of bodies much too close to your own. 

“I don’t know…” you drone, unsure of what excuse to give her. 

“Awe, come on, Chip,” Aelin whines. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a girls night with just the two of us. It’s been ages since I’ve gotten to see you at all! You’re… worrying me a little with how much you’ve been working lately.” 

Worry. Of course she’s worried. You’ve given her every right to be concerned over these last few months. Working yourself to the bone, it’s not all that uncommon for you to get home in the early hours of the morning in the name of getting a few extra quid on your paycheck when cash is short. The last time the two of you had seen one another, you mentioned wanting to get a part time job on top of the one you’re already working. Aelin’s eyes had gotten so wide, you swear they nearly popped out of her skull like teal marbles. 

You haven’t exactly done anything to ease her mind since then, either. 

The light turns green, and the car gently accelerates through the intersection as you sigh. Your fingers lace together as you anxiously pick at your dry cuticles. “Can you promise me we’ll be home before two?” 

“How about two thirty?” she counters. 

You drop your head as you try to bite back another sigh. “Do you promise?”

“You have my word,” she assures, raising one hand off the steering wheel as if she’s giving you an oath. “We can even sit in the VIP section where there’s less people and better booze.” 

A chuckle rattles in the back of your throat at Aelin’s enthusiasm, yet despite the laughter, a dithery tickle threatens to choke you. It forms a pit in your stomach that not even a deep breath can vanquish. Any warmth or lightheaded glee from the night quickly drowns beneath an unrelenting wave of agita—one that’s been looming over you since the moment Aelin mentioned she is worried about you. 

Worry always brings a secondary feeling with it. Need. The need to smother. The need to fix. To help. Perhaps her dragging you out to her husband’s club is her own weird way of helping you. It gets you out of your dingy apartment and into the world. It gets you to spend time with her—the only person you have left in your life that you can really call family. In some twisted way, it’s comforting knowing she cares so much, but the last thing you need is someone trying to help you again. 

You know all too well what that brings. 

Still, you smile. “I can’t wait.”

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[matsunoluvr]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ love and deepspace men and their random habits

warnings: none!!

characters: rayafel, xavier, zayne, sylus

link to master list here!

author’s note: feeling like a short and sweet one today, sometimes writing more than i want can take the fun out of writing so i’ll stick true to myself this time 🗣️

more below the cut! ☆〜（ゝ。∂）

he like, drums his fingers a lot. you know like that rhythmic tapping on desks?

rafayel enjoys moving around his fingers and stimulating his brain in little ways whilst he’s waiting for some paint to dry to paint another layer or when waiting for you to finish an activity.

he also picks at things, paint on the wall or at scabs (bad habit, you tell him but he never stops) - he complains and says it doesn’t hurt when you bandage it up

rafayel hates growing out his fingernails but he doesn’t bite them, he tends to pick them until they peel shorter then clip them neat with nail clippers

how to combat both his picking habit and nail peeling at the same time? slap on some nail polish, he gets to peel to his hearts content and look amazing at the same time!

“Cutie, come here. I peeled off all my nail polish, can you redo it?”

i feel like in game xavier already blinks quite a lot more than all the LIs, but i can see him also doing those like, long hard reset blinks

he’ll blink loads at once then do this longer blink and then be fine, i can just see him doing this

maybe it’s because his hair looks like it’d get in and irritate his eyes lolol

when you and him get plushies he keeps the ones he keeps on his bed, i feel like he’s usually minimalistic when designing his house but his bed??

it’s like a plushie fortress, when you visit you could literally drown in them

“I like sleep, and I like you. It’s the best of both worlds, want to join me?”

zayne is the type of person to ACTUALLY rub his temples, like what person actually does that? zayne of course.

he also subconsciously clicks pens a lot, not loud and at a high frequency - but if you pay attention to his hands you’ll notice he gently clicks and then un-clicks the pen when in deep thought

he definitely does this more when he’s stressed, the feeling of the pen popping out against his thumb is therapeutic

zayne keeps around fake plants and a watering can because he somehow found a sick sense of amusement watching you water them every time you came to his office.

“Why am I smiling? No reason.”

he genuinely rubs his hands together and it makes sylus look like a fly, he just looks so sinister and mischievous when he does it

if you ask him why he rubs his hands together he just shrugs his shoulders

“Just habit, sweetheart.”

really it’s because he has sweaty palms LMAOO and he’s an old man, of course he’s gonna do old man things

i feel like sylus likes to chew on things, imagine one time you catch him clenching his jaw and decide to give him some gum

it’s not like he doesn’t know what gum is he just never really though about buying some

after that you find stacks of gum in his draws and he’s always chewing a piece, the only thing he dislikes is discarding gum.

AN; silly silly men doing silly silly things, i didn’t think too much about these just slurred random ideas and wrote them down LMAO

[mishkiq]

Hey can you write a fic where Bellamy kisses reader scars??? Please im BEGGING YOU

A cold, humid night in Camp Jaha.

Winter had finally begun to pass, allowing the night insects to chirp quietly in the background. Your only company, for now.

The fire pits in the main area of camp had burned low hours ago, and most of the camp was asleep. The exception, of course, was the guards on rotation—including the man you shared your tent with.

The sleeping bag rustled faintly beneath you. You had peeled your shirt off a few minutes ago when the itching of your scars had gotten too much to ignore. The scabs and healed-over wounds on your back and sides rarely acted up anymore, but they prickled when the weather shifted, when rain built up in the clouds.

Bad enough that you had asked Lincoln for a favor a few days ago. And this morning, he had passed by with a kind expression and a jar of some sort of herbal salve Nyko had made. You had thanked him and tucked the container into your pocket, but hadn't thought of using it until now.

Minty, in a way that cleared your sinuses, but cooling where it counted. Your fingers rubbed the salve in gently, shoulders twitching each time your fingertips grazed over still-sensitive puckered flesh at your ribs.

You heard him before you saw him, of course.

Heavy footfalls—recognizable from countless days and nights and sparring matches together. A pause at the flap. The faintest sound of fingers unzipping the entrance. He ducked inside, curly hair first.

You glanced over your shoulder, smile hidden. You didn't say anything yet. Just watched as he shrugged off his jacket and shook out the cold. His eyes landed on your bare back.

"Hell of a welcome home," Bellamy said, half a smirk already lifting the corner of his mouth. “You always this generous, or is it just my lucky day?”

You snorted. "Shut up," you muttered without heat, rolling your eyes as you turned away and continued rubbing in the ointment.

He kicked off his boots, setting them in the designated corner of the room. Hung his jacket neatly over the single chair by the table in the other corner. Even tired, he cared too much not to be neat about the things he claimed.

The cot shifted, and the weight of the jar of ointment disappeared from your hand. You raised a brow and watched as he sat beside you, his cold thigh bumping against yours for warmth. He was still in his undershirt—that tan-brown one you loved, accentuating his pecs. Though it looked like he had cleaned up before returning home, you could still smell woodsmoke and a tang of sweat on him.

His fingers dipped into the jar, and you leaned toward him, pressing a slow kiss to his cheek. "How was your day?"

No answer. At least, not right away.

Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing against the scar on your shoulder. A crooked plus sign. An arrow bolt from a scout aiming for your head. You hadn't even seen the shooter's face—just a flash of movement followed by white-hot pain that had darkened the edges of your vision.

"The usual," he finally said, quiet as he smeared the ointment over the scar. Another kiss. Barely a whisper of contact, this time to raised skin that crossed your bicep.

You hummed. "Any gossip?"

"Nosy," he scolded, dipping his head to kiss the acne scars freckling your shoulders. Those no longer bothered you, not when survival came first, but he kissed them like they were worth knowing. Worth remembering.

"What's the point of having you around if you got no gossip for me?" Your eyes sparkled in the light, affectionate as your hand found his thigh.

A familiar glint in his eyes, but he didn't respond with words. Just leaned in more, his body pressed warm against yours.

The sleeping bag rustled again as your weight shifted. A quiet laugh escaped as you found yourself flat on your back, Bellamy settling himself between your legs, as though this was the only place he was meant to be tonight. Leaning on one elbow to keep from crushing you, his mouth went back to work.

The rope burn remnants at your other shoulder got a kiss. Then one just to the left of your stomach—thinner, deep, a stab from a betrayal that had hurt more than the injury, one you had spoken of once and never again. A swipe of ointment followed each press of his lips before his hands splayed wide, palms warm against your sides as he dipped his face lower to a burn mark on your hip.

One of your hands raked through his curls, nails lightly scraping at the base of his scalp—a spot you knew made him weak in the knees.

Bellamy tilted his head, kissed a line just below your navel. No scars there. Heat radiated from his body, sending goosebumps up your spine. You didn't need to look down to see the quirk of his lips against your skin.

An open-mouthed kiss this time, lower.

The tent creaked faintly as wind pushed against it from the outside. You barely noticed. The world might as well have disappeared.

Better things to focus on.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: can u believe we've actually made it to chapter eleven... 😲 i cannot! alas thank u so much again for being patient with me <3 i think i'm much better locked in now so MAYBEEE we'll see something other than longing glances soon ehehe <3 ok mwah thank u for reading, enjoy <3

word count: 4.5k

synopsis: Trouble sleeping leads you to wander the halls of the House of Wind, finding a friendly face. Azriel stews in his misery—but not for long.

CHAPTER ELEVEN :: FRIENDS (AGAIN)

You have a problem.

Despite the training and the fresh, rich and plentiful food—despite the bed that’s softer than anything you’ve touched in decades—it becomes rapidly apparent in the next week that rest does not find you easily in Velaris.

The first week it’s easy to chalk up the discomfort to your still healing body.

You weren’t high Fae by any means. The bruises that matted your skin were bone-deep and injuries of that kind took time to recover from.

Yet, as time rolled forward and the stiffness retreated, even as wounds turned to scabs, sleep did not claim you. In fact, it rather stubbornly avoided you.

You find you can only sleep after exhaustion kicks in, certainly no earlier than a couple hours of tossing and turning. It only takes a couple days of restless sleep to figure out the suspect.

The pillowy bed.

All your life, sleep has meant a hard surface, only differing from the ground in its protection against the chill of the mountains. But still, you’ve slept better nights on the ground than you have in this bed.

It’s so soft. It pulls you in and makes you feel as though you’re sinking into a cloud. Your pillows are plush and feathery, your sheets delicate and silky to touch.

It’s too soft.

So, when the aches of your injuries recede and the sleep still doesn’t come, you say to hell with it, even if a small part of you fears what the Highlord might say.

You keep the comforter but leave everything else behind — tugging it off the bed and curling up on the stone floors, bundled in the fleecy, warm blanket.

The sleep is better.

Still, as your days training with Cassian continue, it’s not a proven cure.

Some nights, like tonight, it evades you so severely that after a hour or two blinking at the floor, counting the spots on the ceiling, something stirs in you to move. You begin to wander.

Even with Rhysand’s assurance, it’s hard not to feel like an imposter as you creep through the halls of the house.

You’re silent on your feet. There’s only a whisper of your presence as you pass door after door, each of them ornately designed and firmly closed.

You’ve only done this wandering once or twice. The first time you got the itch to explore, you barely made it down the hallway you started in. Something dark had fluttered in the distance, taking you by surprise.

Heart pounding in a hair-raising chill, instinct forced you back into your room in a mad dash. Pressed up against your locked door, it had felt eerily similar to your old cabin.

But even so, you’ve haven't run into anyone else.

This time, your fourth time wandering, you take a different route, rubbing tiredly at your eyes with a hint of irritation. Even if sleep evades you, you’re tired, there’s no doubt of that.

Warm sandstone keeps you company. As you take a left where you’ve always taken a right, a pair of gilded glass doors you’ve never seen tucks itself behind an unsuspecting corner.

You have a rule not to open any closed doors.

This one, however, tempts you with a pool of pale moonlight cast through its windows. Besides, a quick glance through the glass tells you you’re alone.

It’s another balcony. Like all of them, you suspect as you open one door silently and step out, it overlooks Velaris. The city sprawls out from the foot of the mountain, glorious and alive.

The title of City of Starlight certainly seems fitting tonight. It glows, a thousand specks of light dancing across the air to you.

Beyond it, the blackness of the ocean calls out to you, a salty spring in the air. Seeing the edge of the continent, something stutters in your chest.

How big the world really is... How small it seemed to you not too long ago. You’re learning there’s much more than just frost and mountains.

Your gaze drops back to the city, its lights winking at you almost enticingly. Even from afar, you swear you can hear laughter carried on the warm wind.

How it is this lively when, based on the high and bright moon, it must be nearing morning baffles you. Tentatively, you approach the ornate railing and place your hands on it, leaning forward. How would it look from the skies, you wonder...

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Despite the gentle attempt to get your attention, it doesn’t stop you from startling violently, whipping around in a half second. Your heartbeat races, climbing up to too fast in a manner of moments.

It's Rhysand. That fact doesn’t help your panic but the sight of him reminds you to throw up the brick wall in your mind, just as he's been teaching you. The focus on the task ebbs away some of your panic.

“Can’t sleep?” Rhys’ asks, kindly ignoring your frenzied panic for your sake.

Taking a controlled inhale to calm yourself, your shoulders drop an inch. You nod slowly.

“Let me guess,” He says, taking a slow step in your direction.

He’s got his hands in the pockets of his sleek pyjama pants — a motion you now recognise not as arrogance, but instead to show that he means no harm. He tilts his head to the side, violet eyes narrowing as he hmmms.

“Bed too soft?”

It’s so spot on that you mentally check your walls, finding them still in tact.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t read my thoughts.”

Rhys smiles, giving a soft chuckle. He shakes his head. “I haven’t. You just…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully.

He glances up at the moon and then says, “Azriel was the same.”

The name makes your heart twist painfully. It's like pressing on an old bruise.

“Cassian too,” Rhys continues, giving a little shrug. “But Az more than anyone else. Spend enough time sleeping on the floor and anything else feels too wrong.”

Gingerly, you nod. Somehow, hearing about Azriel feeling the same as you— imagining him dragging the covers off his bed and burrowing on the floor— makes you ache a little bit.

Maybe you hadn’t realised how alike the two of you were.

“How did he…?” You wave an awkward hand and fumble for the right words. “Or Cassian—I mean, how did they get over it?”

Rhys gives another subtle shrug, his smile turning a little wry. “Not sure if Az ever did. I mean, he’s not big on sleeping for sleepings sake. Cassian on the other hand…”

He trails off and it makes you laugh softly, covering the noise behind your hand. Cassian has certainly let you know his distaste for early rising, even if he is always punctual. Though, you wonder if that’s more to with leaving his mate behind…

“I think,” Rhys starts, then stops. He clicks his tongue, mouth twisting to the side. “I think Azriel had trouble thinking he deserved it. As though he hadn’t earned it.”

The words pierce through you, panging painfully with the familiarity which they resound within you.

“I hope you know that nothing as essential as rest or food or safety—” Rhys stresses each word carefully. “—needs to be earned. Not here.”

Not here—because he’s vividly aware of where you’ve come from.

Because he’d come from it too. Because even though he’s an Illyrian male, at some point so were you, and that means he knows.

He knows. He chooses to be better.

You open your mouth, no clue what response is on your tongue, when the door opening behind him stops you.

Rhys turns and your eyes take in a Fae more beautiful than you could imagine, standing on the doorstep.

You hadn’t known females could… radiate as she does. Females in Exordor are more brutish, more hardened, as it's the only way they truly survive. This Fae is beautiful. She'd be torn apart in Exordor.

If Rhys is the night, she is a star within it. Glowing and warm, the spectacular sight to awe at.

Everything you’ve been leaning into since your arrival, the new identity, the idea of being a she for the first time properly, shrivels up suddenly.

You swallow thickly. You know without a doubt that you are not comparable to this Fae.

“Rhys?”

Cauldron, even her voice is sweet. She’s smiling softly, directed at the Highlord before you who has—what you can only describe as—melted at her presence. She steps down onto the balcony, draped in a soft, ashy nightgown.

“What are you—oh!” Her grey eyes lift as she notices that Rhys is not alone on the balcony.

The smile on her face shifts towards more friendly and welcoming. “Sorry, I thought I was just hunting down a runaway mate, not that he was actually busy.”

She reaches out and ribs Rhysand, as though he should’ve told her not to come looking for him somehow.

As they share a look long, you realise maybe she did mean that literally. She did say mate, after all.

“Who I am to deny myself the pleasure of being hunted down by my lovely wife?” Rhys drawls smugly, grinning as he catches her hand when she tries to rib him again.

He twists it and plants a devoted kiss on the back, evidently pleased when she brightens instantly.

“I’m coming back to bed now, anyways,” He says, murmuring into her skin before he restrains himself, straightening up.

You see his mate cast a quick, concerned glance your way but Rhys shakes his head. “She doesn’t need to hear any more of my blathering, I’m sure.”

He turns to you with a grin and a wink. You blink, perturbed, and completely unsure how to react.

“I hope at least some of what I said you'll find useful,” Rhys says, beginning to wander backward towards the door.

His arm finds the curve of his mate's waist like a magnet and a new emotion surfaces within you, tinged green. She steps back through the gilded doors first, waiting just inside for him.

“But more than that,” Rhys says, hovering on the doorstep. “I hope you’ll get some good sleep.”

He turns and disappears down the hallway, following his star into the darkness of the house. You watch them both go.

Somehow, you think he really means it.

—

Azriel's shadows appear to lose their penchant for mischief overnight.

Which naturally means there’s a healthy dose of suspicion that brews in his mind. As Azriel walks towards the training ring, he eyes the unusually calm blackened spirits. Gone is their frantic energy and instead, they laze about, content to curl up around his shoulders today.

Suspicious indeed. Azriel makes a mental note as he casts a glance out of the windows carved out of the mountain rock.

It's dusk. Night lingers, waiting to drape itself across Velaris in a glossy, inky blanket. Twinkles of light begins to burst forward in the darkness. For all the sour reasons he's making himself train at night, Azriel has to admit it has some perks too.

Like they do most days, his thoughts drift to you.

There's a slight hitch on the thread between you and Azriel and he feels his wings give a little involuntary shudder in response. Thanks to his pestering shadows, he's still being fed little updates about your whereabouts and wellbeing — still a perfect torture.

But you've graduated to training with Cassian.

No longer just cautious friends, no, you're standing up and fighting against him, as you had done with Azriel all those months ago. It had been another morsel of information dropped in his ear by his shadows that made him stumble in his motions.

He had hardly given you a choice, back in Exordor. Azriel remembers it now with a wince, wishing in hindsight that he had been kinder. He had exposed your secret of helping the girls in the camp, infiltrated your home, and all but enforced it on you.

It came from good intentions but if he knew what he knew now, he'd do it differently.

There's... lots of things he'd do differently.

But, with the past set in stone, it didn't matter. Cassian was about choice. Rhys was about choice — and Azriel knew there was no way either of them would've gone near you without your permission, let alone engage in combat.

Besides, he's fairly certain that his brothers were aware of how Azriel would tear them limb from limb if they threatened his mate in any shape or form.

Mate.

The word is still fresh on his tongue and Azriel has to swallow thickly around it, feeling clunky and wrong in his mouth. It doesn't feel as though he's truly earned it yet.

Funny how he spent so many years waiting for one, yearning for his mate, aching for the other half of his heart.

To now be here — travelling through the House of Wind during the evening, to keep his distance from you.

There's another hitch on the tie that binds you and Azriel raises a scarred hand to brush his knuckles along the tender ache in his chest.

He wasn't sure what the little tugs and pulls throughout the day meant. He wasn't sure if it was him or you that was responsible for them.

Even if it feels like a daydream more than anything, he lets himself pretend it means you're thinking of him.

"Give it time," He murmurs to himself, his voice a raspy whisper.

It was Rhys' advice, given to him after that last meeting on the balcony. Give it time. It's what you deserve, what he owes to you.

It doesn't mean it doesn't still sting.

His eyes track the tiles on the floor as he rolls his shoulders back, already preparing for the next couple hours spent training. He can hear the sounds of Cassian out in the ring already, the scuff of his boots against the hard ground.

"Give it time," Azriel urges himself again, under his breath, willing the words to give him some more of his desperately lacking patience. He steps down onto the balcony.

Then, he promptly freezes, because it becomes rapidly apparent that Cassian is not alone.

You... You're there.

In the ring, your wings stretched out in the lowlight of the rising moon, your face relaxed in a way he'd nearly forgotten.

Mother, he’d already thought you were the most beautiful Fae he’d ever laid his eyes on, even back in Exordor, but one short month in Velaris has transformed you.

You had always been strong—your muscles wiry and slender, but hardened. Not having to guess when your next meal is, sleeping with both eyes closed… the effects of being cared for is magnanimous on you. You look better.

To Azriel, you glow.

Then your head towards him and the easy expression of your face shifts to something he desperately wants to be able to read. Cassian has noticed his entrance too, hovering just behind you, but there’s nothing Azriel can look at other than you.

Your eyes meet his.

Stretched out between you, invisible and humming like a live-wire, the mating bond gives a pang.

Azriel feels it burrow beneath his skin, feels it through every nerve and even though he doesn’t deserve it, his heart still croaks forlornly tell me, tell me you feel it too.

The corner of your mouth tugs up and it takes Azriel a whole moment to realise it's almost a smile. Directed at him. Is he still sleeping? Is this some wondrous dream he wishes to never wake from?

He murmurs your name, his voice as rough as a thunderstorm.

"Az," Cassian responds instead and Azriel's hazel eyes snap up to his brother.

He's still frozen in place, paused on the edge of the balcony, even his wings stilled. The only movement is his rapid shadows, bursting forward and reeling themselves back in, like they want to cross the space but know they're not allowed to.

When Azriel doesn't say anything for a long moment, his name is spoken again, this time from you.

Gods, even your voice has changed ever-so-slightly. No longer are you straining it, leaning into the lower tones to sell your façade. There's a softness to it that hadn't been there before.

Azriel thinks he could drink the way you say his name, get drunk on it, and be merry forever.

He still can't move. Did you know he was training here during the evenings? Is that why you're here? Is this some forced intervention for the two of you, set up by his scheming brother?

His body sways forward, wanting, but he can't bring himself to move.

You step forward first instead, treading lightly til you stand before him. In the background, he can see Cassian turn and busy himself, evidently giving the two of you some time.

"Azriel," You say his name again — and it goes down like a shot of moonshine, burning fiercely, warming him from the inside.

He's still taller than you, forcing you to tilt your head back to face him properly and at this angle, he can see the sheen of moonlight reflected in your eyes. You’re utterly beautiful to him, furrowed brow and all.

His beautiful mate— and he left you.

Left you to be taken, to have your wings pinned down, to have their hatred carved into the scars on your spine.

And he left you to think he was right to do so.

Agony, like nothing he’s felt before, rips through him, a fierce hurricane, violent and betrayed. He will never forgive himself.

"I'm sorry." He says earnestly, his voice low but not quiet. The words burst out and he can’t contain them - not when it’s all he’s wanted to say to you these past weeks.

"Leaving you behind—”

There’s an audible shudder in his breath, his eyes fluttering as if admitting his mistake aloud causes him physical pain.

“It will never stop being the regret that haunts my every waking moment and every moment asleep.”

“Azriel—” You murmur, seeing just how deeply he cuts himself with his words. You can tell now that Cassian is right; the soldier before you would punish himself far longer than you ever deigned to.

“Please,” He cuts you off gently, swaying forward again and forcing himself to have restraint. His shadows barely obey, mere inches from you.

“Let me-” His voice is almost a whisper, his hands curling into loose fists before he releases them with a soft sigh. “I will spend every day of my life making it up to you, if you allow me to.”

For a long moment, you stare up at him, searching his eyes for something he doesn’t know. The bond between you thrums quietly behind his ribs.

“I know you will.” you simply say.

Not assuming but… understanding. As if your picture of him is suddenly clearer.

“But either way, I forgive you.”

The air in his lungs disappears, like a punch to his gut. Even as his face barely shifts, well-trained after centuries, his shadows betray him, exploding into a frenzy.

They dart forward, bating into your arms and neck with enough speed to surprise you, but your response is only a puff of air, almost a laugh. The edges of your mouth turn up. Azriel scowls at them, a flustered hue rising to his cheeks.

“…Why?”

You don’t seem surprised by his question, even though the moment it leaves him mouth, Azriel wants to stuff it back in. Who is he to question your forgiveness?

You take a weary breath in and for the first time, break eye contact, casting your to the ground.

“You… You made a mistake. You know that now.” Your eyes flash up to meet his. “You also came back. I think that’s maybe just as important.”

Azriel blinks, more surprise rearing up within him.

How are you so calm, so levelheaded? Where is the angry warrior forged in icy heart of the Illyrian Mountains? The ones who fight first and ask questions never?

Forgiveness, Azriel knows, is not a concept among Illyrian warriors.

His eyes glance up to the other occupant of the balcony. You surely can’t have got it from hanging around with Cassian, of all people. Hot-headed, easy to anger, grudge holder for all eternity Cassian?

Perhaps, Azriel thinks, he doesn’t give his brother enough credit.

“Besides, I also can only hope I’m treated with the same kindness when I make my next mistake.”

Your words soften him. As Azriel swallows the lump in his throat, he finds it in himself to take the forgiveness as easily as you’ve offered it to him.

He nods, then draws his hand from his side and holds it out, “I would hope then, that you wouldn’t mind starting over. As friends?”

Not allies, companions, or teachers.

You put your hand in his, setting the bond twanging between you, and nod. This time, when your lips curl up, it’s in a real, genuine smile. It’s small, but there — and it’s for him.

Azriel could probably fight the moon at this point.

“Friends.”

“You guys done over there? Friends yet?” Cassian calls out callously, having heard almost every word and trampling over the moment without regret. You drop Azriel's hand quickly, turning back with a somewhat flustered expression.

Azriel narrows his eyes at him and Cassian grins deviously in response.

“Great. Does this mean we can all go back to training together in the morning?” Cassian tilts his head to you, gesturing. “She’s been putting through the wringer. I think it’s your turn.”

The words make you grin fiercely and suddenly, Azriel finds he has no trouble with that idea in the slightest.

—

The trio of you train into the twilight, even with the agreement of tomorrow’s early training.

Like an old habit, you fall back into sync with Azriel so easily it’s nearly scary. While your training with Cassian has been about teaching you a variety of new techniques, with you and Azriel it’s always been one on one.

Tonight is no different. Squaring against him in the ring, your new strength and arsenal of moves makes you an equal match. No longer are you trailing behind by one second, stuck on the defence.

Steel of swords clash and you bare your teeth in delight. Just months ago, you were still like an apprentice to him.

Now, you hold your own, new scars and all. You’ve adapted to change in your wings and when you fight with Azriel, it’s fluid. It's a dance.

It also exhausts you like nothing else. When Cassian finally calls it, the fight unwon by either of you after nearly ten constant minutes, you feel tired in a way you haven’t in an age.

It feels good. You’d almost feel bad at Cassian’s exclusion if he wasn’t grinning as widely as you. The sight doesn't jar you but the realisation that it’s happiness for you does. You're still not used to having people in your corner.

As you pant and step out of the ring, Azriel speaks your name.

“May I walk you to your room?” He asks, still panting lightly. The nod in reply comes easily.

Azriel smiles, one of his real ones, teeth and all. His canines are sharper, giving him an almost fanged grin. You’ve never seen that smile before, as eased and relaxed as it is.

You wonder for a moment how much the Azriel you met in the mountains, the colder and harsher version, is the real one.

Here, in his home, you can see that every corner of him is softened.

And then whatever you’re thinking is wiped in an instant as he pulls his black training shirt to wipe the sweat from his face—revealing his glistening, tanned and toned stomach that ripples with every breath.

Cauldron. A heat you’ve never felt quite before burns through you, like a paper going up in flames.

Something strung between your ribs stings in the most perfect way. You feel your lips part instinctively, your heartbeat suddenly louder than it was a moment ago.

Smothering the feeling, you make sure to school your features into something neutral, your open mouth snapping shut.

You have no idea what expression you’d made but you don’t doubt it’ll be something Cassian can laugh at. A quick glance at the male shows you’ve gotten away with it this time.

Turning, you pad across to the weapons rack and lay your broadsword to rest, waiting for Azriel to do the same. He sheathes the sword with ease and then tilts his head towards the doors.

Together, you bid your friend adieu. Something glimmers in Cassian’s responding smile, his dark eyes watching you with a look that tells you he knows more than he says. You don’t give any reaction, not wanting to encourage him.

Besides, you’ve learnt that Cassian has that expression most of the time. You've just grown use to putting him on his ass afterwards though.

Instead, you turn and face the other warrior on the rooftop. He's watching you closely, his shadows, which had been banished during your fight, back and lingering around him in a relaxed way.

You lead the way. He follows. Neither of you speak.

It's something timid and new, trying out your friendship again. Despite how easy it was to fall back into fighting with him, you have to admit that your fragile friendship back in Exordor was founded on your lie.

He didn't know who you were, even if you did share many quiet evenings in your cabin. The ground you're starting on is new.

The quiet walk seems just the way to begin.

Something stirs in your chest, almost akin to a purr, warm and welcoming as you walk. Your arm brushes against Azriel several times on the walk, each time setting off a flare beneath your skin. You're too busy watching your feet to notice the fervent glances Azriel can't resist stealing.

You arrive at your room what feels like far too soon.

As you raise your hand to the knob, the silence continues, broken only when you begin to turn it.

"I wanted to say thank you," Azriel says, the words rushing out of his mouth. It makes you pause in your motions. You look back at him.

He seems hesitant but sincere, as though he feared bringing up your forgiveness in case you decided to revoke it.

His hazel eyes dart away, breaking contact briefly, before he clears his throat and meets your eyes. "For allowing me a second chance."

"You know Azriel," You say, your voice warm in a way he's never heard before. So, so different from the warrior in the mountains, in all the best ways, he thinks.

"I think you've been giving me a second chance from the first day we met."

Then, you bid him goodnight and slip into your room quietly.

Exhaustion drags you down to your pile of blankets and sleep is swift to claim you, not even giving you a moment to fixate on the tenderness of Azriel's last smile.

That night, for the first time since you've arrived in Velaris, you sleep the whole night through.

[NEXT PART: SHRIKE (TO YOUR SHY AND GLORIOUS THORN)]

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime

[dollyfetti]

꒰𓂃 ࣪˖ ⠀new bot!! ♡

𝒃ai𝒍 𝓶e 𝒐ut? - touya todoroki x spoiled!user

you’re daddy’s spoiled baby, and when dabi finds himself behind bars, it’s your name he calls into the jail phone to come get him.

ഒ ﹒SCENARIO BELOW

"you what?"

your voice slices through the crusty jail phone like a whip. dabi exhales a low sigh, slumping against the grimy wall of his cell with his fingers on his temples, despite the crooked grin on the corners of his mouth. he presses the phone tighter to his ear, his free hand flicking at a halfpeeled scab on his knuckle.

"can you just... bail me out?" he says, voice low and lazy, like this is just another casual hiccup in his day. his grin widens, already knowing your answer.

your family's loaded. your filthy rich daddy owns half the city, and the other half owes him favors. and more importantly— he knows you’re hopelessly in love with him, even if you mask it with dramatics and venom soaked lectures.

he can already picture it. your eyes rolling, your voice rising as you complain about the audacity of having to send your driver, or worse, driving yourself in expensive heels and a designer coat to fetch your jailbird boyfriend.

he hears the stomp of your heels echoing in the marble hallways of your father’s estate, the click of your manicured nails and jeweled rings as you snatch your keys and bark orders at your driver before getting back to him on the phone.

bot reqs are open!! my c.ai is @dollyfetti, same as here :3

[splishsplashgash]

My Lawrence Oleander headcanons

-he dumpster dives behind gardening and floral shops sometimes.

-Lawrence either eats like he's at 5 star restaurant or like a feral racoon in the trash.

-Lawrence actually deeply cares for his sisters he just doesn't know how to express it.

-His first pet was a fish,he'd sit for hours watching it in the family living room.

-Lawrence developed his plant obsession because his father would often garden,after his parents found out about his hobby with dead animals his father started teaching him about plants in hope that it'd give him a different hobby.

-Lawrence has to listen to either white noise or nature sounds to go to sleep

-Lawrence only showers once a week,and when he does it's an everything shower,aka shave,wash hair,body,etc.

-Lawrence is a rainbow baby,his parents calling him a miracle but once he got older his mother would murmur when he walked past that he was a curse instead

-Lawrence would clean the house when his family left hoping that they'd see him in a different light but they'd come home and say nothing,ignore him.

-Lawrence as a kid didn't eat his boogers like other kids he'd eat and pick at his scabs instead (me too Lawrence me too.)

-Lawrence was designated babysitter when ever his parents would leave for dates or other things.

-Lawrence hated school,we all know that, but I believe that Lawrence's teachers probably loved him,that they would call him sweet and hardworking.

-Lawrence likes routine and when his routines are messed up it angers him

- (Okay this one is more jokingly but...) He uses MC's piss to pass his works drug tests.

-He buys those essential oils that those old white ladies promote saying it will cure everything and all that junk

-He doesn't know much about technology,yeah he'd search stuff up on the family computer and on his phone but besides that he doesn't really know much.

-avid nail biter

-lived off Arizona Green Tea as a teenager

-Let his sisters braid and play with his hair when they were younger

-When he got his hair cut as a kid by his mom he'd cry everytime to the point she gave up on cutting it anymore

That's all I can remember right now I'm sure I have more though lol.

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ [ch.2] for when you see me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The whiskey still burned in your chest when you woke up. You hated the feeling of alcohol within your system, but god does it soothe your tangled mess of a head.

Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, unforgiving. You groaned, rolling onto your side, half-expecting the bed to dip under someone else’s weight. But the sheets were cold. Empty.

Just like always.

The CD player had long since shut off, but the song still looped in your skull.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until colors burst behind your lids.

Pathetic.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Leah’s name flashed across the screen, followed by a string of texts:

Leah: u alive?

Leah: also sarah says sorry abt last night. she didn’t know it was ‘that song’

Leah: …u gonna answer or am i sending mira over?

You typed back with one thumb.

You: i’m fine. don’t worry.

A lie. But what else was new?

The boxes in the corner taunted you. You’d only opened one last night, and already it felt like picking at a scab. The rest were a minefield of old playlists, ticket stubs, and the kind of photos that made your ribs ache.

You kicked the nearest one under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

The day was bright and bold. You set yourself up on your feet and got ready. Today is work day.

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“Going to Floor 26.” The pristine elevator voice echoed around you as you got in it.

The studio was your sanctuary. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Atlas Records had given you the space after your first album surprisingly went platinum immediately after it was released (only days before it went double.) It was a token, a ‘reward,’ they’d called it. As if the pristine soundboards, the premium tech setup and gears, and some Grade-A acoustic paneling could make up for the fact that they owned you.

You slumped into the chair, scrolling through the latest track list your producer had shoved at you: that and a mere bunch of memos from the people upstairs.

Upbeat. Radio-friendly. More of what’s working, just like last cycle.

You crumpled the stupid paper into a ball and threw it straight into the can.

"Rough night?" You almost flinched as you heard a booming voice behind you.

Mira, your manager, leaned against the doorframe, sipping a matcha latte with extra foam. Walking just enough meters beside you, she offered another cup with the same taste — your favorite.

"Something like that," you muttered, taking the cup and popping the lid off instantly. You smelled the fresh aroma, before sipping soundly.

She arched a brow. "Leah’s wedding, right? Tell me about it."

You strummed a dissonant chord on the nearby guitar. "Played ‘Wonderwall.’ The crowd loved it."

Mira didn’t laugh, sitting with her back against one of your designer chairs. "Liar liar, pants on fire."

You shrugged. "It’s in my contract. Must lie convincingly to press."

“Press!? We lived in the same roof for a year and that’s all I am to you?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m famous.”

She groaned, taking it lightly. But then her eyes flicked to your hands—the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly against the strings.

"Who was it?" she asked, softer.

You didn’t answer. You could feel her eyes burning through your thick skull as if almost reading the contents of your brain.

She exhaled. "Take the day, hmm? Sleep it off. We can push the schedule to—"

"I’m fine." You grabbed the nearest lyric sheet, jaw tight. You sat across her in your leather chair, focusing on sorting out the busy contents of your workspace before speaking yet again. "Let’s just work. We’ve got three hours before we go, yeah?"

Mira studied you for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah.”

After taking a long winding breath, she slowly went to the door to take her leave.

“If you start crying into the microphone later, I’m charging you for ruined equipment." She retorted one last second.

“Blah blah, go do your manager things!” You smiled as you tried to throw a crumpled sheet to her.

“Alright, alright!” She shut the door gently, leaving you alone on your vices.

Right ... you were going to sing today. A lot.

When you least expected it, the skill you had fun as a hobby had already become a chore.

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The neon sign outside flickered—YE OLD TAVERN—in all its peeling, ironic glory.

You hadn't set foot in this place since your university years. Back when sticky tables and cheap beer felt like an adventure, not exhaustion. Back when he was still beside you, laughing into his drink as you butchered a karaoke song.

Now, the bar was packed—word had spread about the "intimate, unplugged" tour Atlas had forced you into. Authenticity sells, they'd said. Fans eat this shit up.

You just wanted nothing but sleep.

"Five minutes," Mira muttered, nudging you toward the old stage—a vintage relic of this bar’s storied past, all with a single mic stand waiting.

The crowd was a blur of your fans; young adults like you, some adults that you remind of their youth, and a lot of younger people that definitely fit the criteria of modern fans, holding up LED signs and phone screens. You adjusted the guitar strap digging into your shoulder and forced a smile.

Your signature voice flowed through the space like a gentle autumn breeze, carrying warmth and nostalgia with every note. The raw emotion in your delivery resonated deeply with your supporters, who hung on every word and inflection.

You can definitely see it in their eyes. They were enamored by you.

Your voice filled the room with a simple kind of magic. The crowd melted into the music as you sang, each word honest and raw. This wasn't just another show - it was real, and everyone could feel it.

Then you saw him.

Blond hair, roughly swept back to the side like he'd run a hand through it one too many times. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt. That face—sharp, unfairly handsome, watching you with an intensity that made your fingers twitch against the strings.

Jay.

Right there. On the side of the bar area, sat on a comfy wooden stool.

Your breath caught. And his too.

He hadn't meant to come.

But then he'd seen the posters outside the tavern—your name in bold letters—and suddenly he was nineteen again, sneaking in with his new ID just to see you play again and not miss his shot.

Now, he‘s frozen as he sees you perform so whole heartedly under the might of a single incandescent light.

You looked beautiful. Real.

Not the polished version from magazines or Leah's wedding—where you'd stiffened the second Sarah requested that song. Where your voice had cracked on the chorus, raw in a way no studio could autotune.

Where he’s just able to see you again.

And now here you were, strumming the opening chords of something new—voice low, rougher than he remembered. The crowd swayed, but Jay didn't move.

Couldn't.

Not when you glanced up mid-verse, gaze snagging on his like a caught breath.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

You finished the set in a daze.

No one noticed the way your hands shook. No one except him.

Backstage—if you could call a storage room with a large old leather loveseat a ‘backstage’—Mira shoved a bottle of branded distilled water into your hands. "Good crowd. Atlas'll be happy."

You didn't answer.

Mira sighed, looking at you with that same concern yet again. She knows your situation, and she feels bad being so helpless and useless to ease your pain the way you want.

She taps your shoulder and presents a light grin back at you. "Van’s out back. Avoid the fans, yeah?"

You nodded, seeing her leave the room shortly.

Until when can you stomach this feeling? This sensation? Being trapped in world you dreamed of was never in your plans, yet here you are, sitting inside your gilded cage.

As you took a deep breath, you fixed your hair and showered yourself in your favorite perfume yet again. You took a faithful step and approached the exit.

When your senses met the stench of New York’s streets opposite the alley door, Jay was already there. Leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, like he'd been waiting for years.

"Hey," he said.

The streetlight caught the gold in his hair. God, he looked good.

"Hi." Your voice came out hoarse. You walked slowly, approaching him with some needy caution. Just for yourself.

A beat of silence passed. Then Jay pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "You killed it in there."

You scoffed. "It was a dive bar, Jay."

"Yeah. Our dive bar."

The words hung between you. Quiet, and more of that still silence.

“The dim lights suit your features.”

You shot up a glance towards Jay, hearing him say such a ridiculous thing in the middle of your self-inflicted turmoil.

You could say the same for him.

Right then, you forced yourself to look away. "Shouldn't you be with … Naomi, right?"

Jay's jaw tightened, his hands flexing against his sharp jaw. "I … wanted to see you."

Why?

You didn't ask. Couldn't possibly.

Instead, you watched as he pulled something from his pocket—a crisp white card.

PARK JONGSEONG, with some unreadable fine print at the side you couldn’t see much under the street lights. His name is embossed in sleek black and accents of regal purple.

"If you ever want to grab matcha," he said, holding it out. "No pressure."

You stared at it. Four years ago, you'd have taken it without hesitation.

Now?

"Jay," you said softly, "what about … her?"

As he opened his mouth—

Ring.

His phone lit up. As your curious eyes darted over, the name span the screen. Naomi.

Jay cursed under his breath, still not answering as he held out for your advise.

"I should—"

"Yeah." You stepped back. "I don’t mind."

He hesitated, card still extended. "Just please... think about it."

Nervous as you can be, you took the card in hesitation.

“A card, huh?” You flipped the sheet of stiff paper on your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Jay perked up his one-sided smile, genuinely happy at the gesture. You couldn’t help but smile back — it was contagious when you see Jay act that way.

“Park Jongseong … got your whole government name here too, hehe.” Jay couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that comment, and neither could you.

Then he was gone—turning by the corner—swallowed by the city lights.

You stood there, fingers clenched around his card, until Mira honked the car horn.

“Drive or bust, superstar!”

Lost in thought, his voice played like a broken record in your head.

Think about it.

As if you could do anything else.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — HAHAHA THE GODS HAVE GIVEN ME THE SIGN SO ITS UPDATE TIME AND OH WE'RE IN CHAPTER 2!! what is all the juice abouttt, find out next chapter~ also excited for en-chella!! GO TEAM WOOOOOO

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER]

my masterlist! | don't forget to reblog! | made by writhyv 💘

[merchant-wizard-and-jerry]

(This is going to be linked as the card drawing post from now on)

*Warning all effects are permanent unless stated otherwise wise and all effects can’t be undone by undoing the magic*

(This means that if your arms turn to metal, you can’t revert the spell that made it happen, because the armed in the eyes of the universe are naturally metal now, but instead can convert the metal back into flesh like you would do if the arms were always metal.)

(The lore reason why is the supreme being made it…. Aka I am the writer of this story and deck and I say no you. (In a joking manner if you or a love one rolled something you don’t want to happen tell me and we can work out a solution))

(List of effects)

TP who TC Gains partial divinity

TP who TC can ask one question to the universe and gets a true answer

TP who TC is immune to all undead for 24 hours

TP who TC can ask one request of the Flock of seagulls

TP who TC gains absolute mastery of there most proficient skill

TP who TC gets there perfect ideal of a follower summoned, the follower is made of stained glass

All people who wants to attack TP who TC becomes completely peaceful

TP who TC has the vision permanently enhanced by 4x

TP who TC brain grows 10x as fast and smart for 1 hour

the next good effect drawn from TD is doubled

TP who TC has everything blue that there touching enchanted randomly.

TP who TC gains a skeleton key

TP who TC has there mind gain armor, it helps reinforce there mind’s processes and also help ward of wind magic form effecting it

TP who TC has a calming aura for 1 week, anyone within that aura has their emotions calmed.

TP who TC arms turned to metal (I forgot to say, for 1 hour)

TP who TC splits into five identical clones 1/5th the size. Each have a randomly selected 1/5th of TP who TC’s powers. At the point of them splitting is when there memories split. Each will grown to normal size over the span of a week. Once one dies, its powers and memories are randomly split among the remaining clones (of that batch). Each clone can split but the above side effects still apply.

TP who TC is recognised as a minor noble in the nearest nobility system

all eyes in a 1 mile radius of TD glows gold for a year

TP who LC gets magic equal TP who TC's magic capabilities for 1 spell

TP who TC can see how corrupt anyone is

TP who NC has there card effect double

TP who HTC has the ability to identify any living thing’s clade

TC turns into, upon being drawn, a random minor magical item. TP who TC will be registered as that item's true owner, that ownership will either be passed to a designated person or person with their best interest in mind upon death of the previous owner.

TP who TC can identify if it’s safe to drink any water they see

TP who TC gets 10 currency

TP who HC has control over a small company of knights

TP who TC gains scales for 1 hour

TP who TC begins to be observed by a god

TP who TC will have all cuts immediately scab over for the next month.

TP who TC is turned into an animal chosen by TP who NC for 4 hours. TP who TC keeps their mind, unless this card is drawn again in the same time and the same animal is chosen. If it is picked again but with a different animal, TP who TC will hybridize as both animals.

TP who TC has the effect they last were under that was triggered by a card reapplied as if they drew it again.

TP who TC chooses a person who will NC

(Automatic custom card)

TP who TC has there element shift one element, this effect either last 1 year or until TP who TC comes to except one lie they believed was true was a lie

A random seed in a 1 foot radius around TP who TC will grow to complete maturity. If there is no seed, a seed will from that when planted will grow a perfect replica of a random card with the magic effect at 1/10th efficiency

TP who TC plays a game of 20 question, if you win, you get a clue finding spy glass. If you lose you lose an eye.

TP who TC next spell will go wild

all water in a 30 foot radius of TD turns into wine

TP who LC has its effect happen to TP who TC

TP who TC has the direction they move relative to gravity altered by the person who NC

TP who NC has TP who LC effect added to theres

TP who TC becomes the target of tempest the clown. Tempest is a weather demigod who wishes to bring joy to kids by showing them weather phenomena… up close.. at full scale.

TP who NC will gain the ability to know where you are at all time

TP who TC will be transformed into a computer software sprite on a piece of digital hardware. The card is transformed into that piece of hardware. Both effects last for 1 day

TP who TC has all there hair light on fire, they are not armed nor is there hair

TP who NC can choose one of TP who TC’s skills to lock for 1 hour

TP who TC experiences 1 years worth of advanced mutation that would be handy in this situation

all grass in a 3 yard radius of TD turns into a fungus based alternative

TP who TC will lose all their hair and have it regrow in a 24 hour period

TP who TC will have all open injuries and non-sensory body holes (peircings, behind, belly button, etc) transformed into functioning technology ports

TP who TC is swarmed by pollen

TD loses its magical effect for 10 minutes

TP who TC gets struck by lightning

TP who TC if they have a scarred over stump it grows cactus spines making it impossible to restore, if not you are immune to cactuses.

TP who TC loses their sense of smell for 10 min

in a 1 yard radius around TP who TC rain will clouds form and rain for 1 week

TP who TC becomes a telepathic potted plant for 1 hour. TP is completely immobile, but still conscious and is able to talk to anyone nearby via telepathy. Any person who touches TP is affected by magic: (Roll 1d4 to decide the effect given) 1. Becoming a telepathic potted plant without other effects. 2. Being fully healed and restored as if they drank a powerful healing potion 3. Clothes are replaced by plants equivalents made from leaves, grass, flowers, moss, and other plant materials. These new clothes do not cover up well and ordinarily resemble Druidic clothing, but also resemble the clothes they were previously wearing. Depending on the magical power or significance of their previous clothes, they may be possible to recover via summoning magic. 4. A large tree appears nearby and they are temporarily transformed into a dryad linked to that tree for one day.

TP who TC becomes a potted telepathic plant for a year

TP who LC attacks you

TP who draws TC loses the ability to understand speech for 1 hour

TP who TC loses all of wealth

TP who TC has there most prized possession trapped in this card for 1 year or until they tell someone a deep secret

all events that took place in the last hour reverts in a 20 yard radius of TD

TP who TC Dies

TP who NC will gain control of your body for 1 minute

(List of terms)

The person (TP)

The deck (TD)

Drew this card (TC)

Drew last card (LC)

Draws next card (NC)

Holds this card (HC)

(Rules)

You can ask pay for a card with 10 currency

When you pay you can specify out of character whether you want a random card or if you want me to make a new one for you to draw that will be added to the deck

If I make a new one I’ll add it to the list

Also if the card calls for good or bad it is referring to thirds, the first 1/3 is good, the last 1/3 is bad and the middle in neutral, round down and give the neutral the extra cards.

If you pick random, roll for me out of the numbers and tell me what you get

[tieronecrush]

BNBG (brand new baby girl)

frankie morales x curvy OF/cam girl f!reader

summary: frankie has been needing distractions from a hurdle in his sobriety, so he ventures to his frequented subscription service platform to take his mind off things. he sees the title of your page, intrigued immediately, and dives deep into your content. catching your attention on a livestream with his confident commands, frankie becomes infatuated with you and an avid viewer before he decides to DM you one day...and then ends up with a brand new baby girl.

wc: 11k

rating: E (very)

warnings: daddy kink!! **cover does not depict anything about the reader, simply vibes of softness**, vague descriptions of reader's body (plush, thick, curves, soft, etc. no definite descriptors used otherwise. picture her as you want but she is mid to plus size in my head 🫶), no age specified (only that reader started out of college, no specifications of when she went to school), discussions of addiction & drug use, childless frankie au, sex work, sex livestream, consumption of porn, unestablished relationship, online relationship, pet names (conejita, baby, babygirl, pequeña, bunny, etc.), gratuitous descriptions of frankie's dick, SMUT, male masturbation, female masterbation, sex toys, both frankie & reader have thoughts about the other (unprotected piv, fingering, oral, etc.), major dirty talk, d/s dynamics, some fluff sprinkled in <3, this might be lowkey problematic that frankie uses porn to cope (esp reader's porn) buuuuut hopefully it's hot

a/n: cover design & dividers by me 💋 this is an unhinged daydream of mine, hope y'all enjoy! huge thank you to my besties @kiwisbell and @northernbluess for beta-reading 💓

The time on Frankie’s phone screen turns over to well past midnight. Bedroom pitched black save for the blue light illuminating his face as he scrolls on Instagram, unable to fall asleep from thoughts stirring. He wants to scratch the itch — to pick at the scab that’s been growing in his brain for over a year. Temptation runs hot in his veins. A craving, deep in his gut. A strong inhale or the rub of his fingertip against his gums. It would be fast.  And it would only last less than half an hour — he could manage it one more time, he was sober enough for that, wasn’t he? He indulges himself in other aspects now: drinking, food, lax with his once regimented workout routine.

Frankie can hear the voice of his sponsor, the one he listens to speak at his weekly meetings in the musty church hall. Sure, his sponsor’s got valuable advice for him, having been sober for decades now, but he can’t relate to Frankie. Not really. He doesn’t know the level of temptation he’s consistently faced with, doesn’t know the fucked up shit he’s seen that got him into the substance in the first place.

His sponsor tells him to get into meditation. That it helps him turn his brain off when he has a craving, redirecting the energy into himself and crushing the aching want for it. Or some spiritual bullshit that Frankie doesn’t understand.

And besides, he’s found his own means of meditation.

Exiting the social media app, he opens his browser and types in the website. The light of the phone illuminates his face enough for his saved login to work, bringing him into his plane of piety. Where he escapes at least three times a week, late nights like now and the occasional mid-afternoon or morning on his desperate days off. When the urge is too strong. When he’s formulating a plan of how to get his hands on a tiny baggie, he loses himself — distracts his brain here.

Scrolling through his usual subscriptions, nothing seems to be hitting the spot. One hand grips his phone, thumb gliding along the screen, while the other cups his hard-on through his boxers, palming himself as he searches for something to get off to.

That’s when he sees it — the perfect combination of words that draws him in by the title. Clicking the page, he’s quick to pledge his monthly amount, eager to get access to all that lies beyond the paywall. And what he’s greeted with, pulls a sigh from his lips in the quiet room, his large hand squeezing his cock through the thin fabric elasticated around his waist. 

“Fuck…” he mumbles to himself when he sees that there’s a live stream happening. A cosmic intervention for him, he thinks, a sign that he’s meant to satiate his vices with this.

With you.

The screen changes to a vertical view of you in front of the camera, iPhone seemingly propped up against something while you sit on your mattress. It’s so…delicate and soft. Those are the words he can think of to describe the backdrop that he takes in quickly. Billowing white comforter on your bed, pillows surrounding you. The first thought he has is that it looks like a bed he could easily sleep in — much more inviting than his. There are touches of blush pink, sky blue, and more. A complete rainbow of desaturated colors.

It all compliments you. Centered in the frame, the next sound you make drags his eyes back to your form as you move around. Another squeeze to his cock draws a longer sigh from his lips as he combs across the view of your body, scantily clad in a thong and a bra covered in cherries. The cups of the bra push up the weight of your breasts, spilling over the edge. His tongue runs across his lips to wet them, a new craving ravaging his mouth as he wonders what you would taste like with the skin of your tits dampened by his saliva.

The rest of your body is as softly lined and curving as your chest, waist swooping into your hips as you sit on your knees in front of the camera. Thick thighs spread with the press of your calves into the back of them, the inside of them meeting at the apex and providing cover for what he so badly wants to be shown. There’s a line of your stomach above the waist of your panties, supple skin glistening. Delicious, is all he can think to himself. You look so fucking delicious that it floods his mouth with saliva, enough that he feels the overwhelming need to push his boxers down, freeing his hard cock to rest against his stomach until he’s spitting into his palm and starting a slow, languid pace.

The grain of his palm drags against the length of his cock as he keeps a steady flick of his wrist. Not too fast, but not achingly slow. Enough to start stoking the burning coals in the pit of his stomach as he watches you on the small rectangular screen. Puffs of hot air leave his mouth, his jaw hanging open while he watches you shift to reach for something out of frame, the first look at your ass gifted to him. Rounded swell of curves with the fabric of your thong dipping between them. The slight jiggle of your cheeks makes Frankie moan quietly, taking the briefest moment to picture that same ripple in your skin from him fucking you from behind.

“Shit…” he grumbles under his breath, minorly increasing the pressure of his grip to squeeze his cock as his hand moves, desperate to mimic the feeling of someone — apparently you, despite not knowing anything close to your name.

Skin on skin catches on the base of his dick and he exhales sharply with his teeth bared, opening his palm to spit once again. It’s not enough, but he continues the slide of his wrist as he sets his phone down on the mattress briefly, reaching over to his nightstand, pausing once again to dispense a pump of lotion into the palm of his right hand. Wrapping the moistened hand around his cock again, he starts a faster pace before slowing down to drag out his pleasure longer.

Returning into the frame fully, he sees your face for the first time and coughs as his open-mouthed inhale seizes in his throat. His fingers circle the base of his cock, squeezing hard as he takes in your face. Perfectly primped with a layer of makeup, but he can tell you’ve got the kind of beauty that wouldn’t ever need changing or enhancing — effortless. Velvety skin, as silky as the rest of your body but with an added glow. Bright eyes that are shining with mischief and want, and a smirk that’s as playful; he finds himself shutting his eyes again, for a few lazy strokes as he pictures that face, and your plush, pliable body, on your knees in front of him. Eagerly awaiting his cock to fill your mouth.

Fuck, you’re really doing a number on him tonight. He needed this. His desperation for a high of any kind coats his open mouth with each labored breath.

Focused back on his phone, you show off the treasure that you dug for off-camera. A lilac vibrator, one that fits the length of your hand, with a swell of size rounded off at the tip and tapered in at the end. Leaning closer to your camera, Frankie groans when your tits bounce, spilling out of your bra with a tiny nip slip that he catches immediately. And it only makes him want to see more.

“Mm, c’mon, pretty girl, show me something here. M’fuckin’ dying…Necesito la distracción (I need the distraction),” Frankie speaks toward the screen, feeling pathetic as he barters with you in the one-way system.

As if you heard his pleas, you adjust your position, laying back on the mountain of pillows to prop yourself up and letting one leg fall open. Even in the lowered lighting of the room you’re in, presumably your bedroom, he can make out the wet patch covering your folds. He finds himself wondering if the act of getting off in front of a camera, in front of people watching live, is what gets you wet. Or if you have a fluffer like he’s heard they do in porn.

He’d wanna be your fluffer.

Or maybe he’d want to be the one to fuck you in the porno. At least both of you’d get to finish then.

“Think I need someone who knows better than me to tell me what they wanna see.” Your voice is saccharine, the slight fry in your voice jolts his hips into his hand, mumbles of curses slipping from his lips. “Anybody have any suggestions for me, chat?”

A low hum starts when you press the button of the vibrator in your hand, spreading your knees further to open your core to the view of the camera completely. Your opposite hand to the toy hooks into the crotch of your thong, pulling the small bit of fabric, practically a string with the amount it’s covering.

Frankie’s mouth waters as the speed of his hand picks up, the grip of his fingers not nearly as satisfying as the clench of a pussy, but he’ll make do. He has been for a year; you know what they say, no relationships for the first year sober. That, and he couldn’t find anyone that could take his mind off of coke long enough for him to get it up. So eventually he just let it be.

Now, though, he’s painfully hard. The quick movements of his hand send a shock of pleasure up to his brain, veins contracting with the extra effort to keep the blood supply to his cock. Thumb brushes over his tip, mixing in his precum with the other lubrication, a hiss from behind his teeth shot out from the stimulation. His gaze is glued onto his rectangular screen, huffing out deep breaths while you press the vibrator against your clit. There’s a quiver in your thighs that he notices, as if this is your first touch after teasing yourself, or someone else teasing you. Sensitive already.

Biting your lip, your eyes scan the screen as you read aloud, “FiveFingersAtFreddys said ‘Take your bra off please.’ Well, actually he said ‘Take your tits out’ but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, dude, and say that you actually do have good manners.”

He laughs, and it’s a first for him. Laughing at someone’s jokes as he jerks off, alone.

You comply with the request, taking the vibrator away from your clit to reach around and unclasp your bra. Tossing the material aside, you lean back into the pillows again and the next sight nearly makes Frankie come right then and there until he takes his hand away completely. Laid out, legs open and fingers pulling your panties aside, vibrator pushing into your clit and driving a high-pitched moan from your lips. All while you're bare from the waist up, cushioned torso melting into your heavy tits, pert nipples bringing them to a point. The form of a Greek classics statue, one with fleshy outlines carved impeccably from marble.

“La obra maestra (A masterpiece)…” Frankie whispers to himself, the squelch of his lotioned hand working his hard length bringing him back into his body, a moan slipping from his mouth.

“I think I need someone else to tell me how I should play with myself. M’so wet, jus’ wanna touch myself but I don’t know where to start. All seems like—like it’s going to feel so good,” you stutter out when your hips buck against the vibrator, a whimper echoing from your chest as you turn your attention to the chat again, awaiting intriguing instructions.

Maybe it’s sexual frustration, maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe it’s the intense fucking craving to replace his need for coke high with a need for an orgasm, but for whatever reason chosen, Frankie finds himself clicking on the comment box with his thumb, typing wildly with one finger. He takes a second to read it for spelling errors before he presses send. Too lost in it all now to care.

Your eyes perk up, smirk growing on your face when you read the influx of chat replies. One must have caught your eye because the vibrator is being left to the side again. Fingers hook into the waist of your panties, slowly pulling them off as you read aloud the comment that caught your attention.

“There’s a new name I see here…Maybe we should do what you want, Mr. FlyingFish. Consider it a welcome gift from me to you.” His heart is pounding in his chest, hand gripping tighter and twisting around his dick as he fucks his fist, mumbles of curses spilling out as he listens to you repeat what he desperately typed not a minute prior. It sounds dirtier coming from you, despite his best efforts at politeness, “You said ‘Please show off how many of your little fingers fit into your pretty pussy. Think a pretty girl like you deserves to fuck her fingers…’ Alright, FlyingFish, you’ve got me blushin’ from that request and that is difficult to do, sir. Thank you for calling me a pretty girl. I promise I’m smart, too. I’ll be sure to count ‘em for you.”

One finger slips into your dripping entrance easily, the other hand reaching for the vibrator and replacing it at your clit while your finger starts to fuck shallowly, “One finger…”

Whines of frustration crack over his small speakers before a bigger moan falls from your lips, a second finger slid into you alongside the first, “Oh, fuck…That’s two. Mm, how am I doin’? FlyingFish, d’you think I can get another?”

Frankie’s wrist flicks rapidly now, the direct address to him driving him mad as the sounds of his arm slapping against his stomach and thigh clap in his room and cut into the sounds your pussy is making as you get yourself off. He types as quickly as he can, strings of curses flowing from his mouth as the heat of his desire burns red hot inside of him. He’s so fucking close but he wants to watch you fall apart at the same time. Wants to be the reason you come.

“Oh, shit—you’ve got a mouth, FlyingFish. ‘I’d hope you can take another, otherwise, you couldn’t take my cock.’ Is that a promise, Fish? You saying you got a big dick for me to take?” 

You whimper and he’s edging himself, squeezing hard to stay together when you inadvertently use his call sign. The closest thing you have to his name, and all he can think about is you screaming it while he’s fucking you. He wants to tell you it’s a promise only if you follow through, indulging in the fantasy of actually getting to touch you only for a moment. But instead, his attention is completely drawn to a third finger stretching your cunt in full view of the camera, your wanton moans popping in his speakers and driving his forearm to burn with the strain of muscle as he attempts to fist his cock even harder.

“Fuckfuckfuck…Come for me, baby, please fucking come on those fingers,” he begs no one but himself, a blinding white heat licking the entire inside of his body as he balances on the edge. Waiting for you to fall first.

“Oh my god, fuck…” The last word is drawn out, pitching up at the end as your fingers fuck faster, squelching sounds of your wetness flooding his mouth as his brain pleads for a taste of your cunt. “I don’t think—I don’t think I can get a fourth. M’gonna fucking come—ah! Oh, fuck me, Fish…”

You barely whisper his name, or at least what is his name to you, but it’s singlehandedly what punches out his guttural moan, ropes of warm, sticking spend coating his hand as he keeps moving and spilling onto his stomach. It’s prolonged, the tension in his calves relaxing after he spills the most come he has in a while.

Airy, light, a rush of blood back to his head has his whole body tingling with a high. Satiating his cravings from earlier, dissolving the want, the need, for anything of the sort. Instead, it’s replaced with thoughts of you — the image of you laying fucked out on his phone, adding his own touch of imagination when he closes his eyes to see you as you are but covered with his come the same way he is. Normally, this is when the smallest bit of shame crawls up his spine and sits at the nape of his neck, but instead, he melts into warmth. Faced with your smile as you sit up and lean over toward the camera again, laughing to yourself as you end the live.

“Um, if you’re still here, thanks for that FlyingFish. Felt fucking good…And to everyone else, I’ll stream again on Monday night, same time as always. Night, everyone. Have a good weekend.” All he hears before the sound cuts out is your excited giggles, the brightness of your post-orgasm joy stretching a smile across your face. He’s faced with a black screen, staring back at himself in the reflection with the shit-eating, smug grin he has on his face.

Now he’s got plans for Monday night.

Frankie hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. He’s hooked. Images of your sloping curves flash behind his eyes on the days when you’re not available to watch, his hips fucking his fist in bed, the shower, even on his couch with the blinds all open because he was that needy. Thoughts of you replaced his thoughts of the white powder, chasing after the different high he’s gifted by your voice, your body — all through a screen.

He’s caught himself rasping affections as he pictures you, hissed compliments as he comes and imagining what he’d say if you were in front of him. Letting him use your mouth or your cunt. He’s even gotten into a habit of imagining his head between your legs; the hardest he came is the one time he pictured you sitting on his face and all of the pretty sounds you’d make for him. Fuck, cariño, that’s so good. Mm, bonita, you’re such a good girl. Love doin’ what you’re told, don’t you, baby?

The fact that he doesn’t even know your name but is this infatuated isn’t lost on him. He knows he has an addictive personality, but this feels different. Like he was meant to find you for some reason. His sponsor would tell him it’s a call from the universe that this is all part of his ‘journey to sobriety’, but really, he just thinks that you’re fucking hot. And the tiniest part of him thinks you might like him watching too, even though you have no idea who he is.

Each time he watches you live, his thumb taps across the keyboard, responding to your requests and even adding in some encouragement. Virtually having conversations with you, he quickly became a frequent flyer (your joke, not his). You listen to him. Like the sweet girl that you are. Taking his suggestions — his demands when you beg — and showing off for him, a whimpering mess when he’s done with you.

At times, it feels like he’s the only one watching, or at least the only one that matters to you. With the amount of times his username falls from your lips, it’s easy to fall into a bubble of you and him. You’ve picked up the habit of referring to him as ‘Fish’ and it’s driven him mad, the closest thing to his name that he’ll hear you say. You give him material to think back about for days after. I love a man that knows what he wants, Fish. You can boss me around, Fishie. I always know what you tell me to do is gonna feel so fucking good.

All of this over the last few weeks has built up his courage, which is why he finds himself sitting on his couch with your profile open, the sun barely set outside. A random baseball game plays on his TV, but his focus is completely on his phone, writing and deleting a DM to you about ten times.

It has to be right. Friendly, but not stalker-ish. Flirty, but not creepy. Commanding enough to get your attention among what he imagines are countless messages in your inbox.

After another good ten minutes drafting a message, his thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button for a few seconds. Squeezing his eyes closed, he lowers his finger and hits the button, anxiety washing over him as he opens his eyes to stare at the blue bubble.

No going back now.

Standing at the stove, water boils over the side of the pot while you pour in the uncooked pasta noodles. A few drops hit your skin, mumbles of curses leaving your lips, “Fucking shit!”

You stir the pasta before reaching for the nearest kitchen towel to wipe the once-scalding water off of your hand. A deep sigh exhales, relaxing your shoulders as the ding of a notification draws your attention to your phone lying on the marble countertop next to you.

What you find on your lock screen sends a shock of excitement down your spine, the warmth of anticipation radiating around your body to tingle your fingers and toes.

[Direct Message:] FlyingFish

Quick to swipe up, the device unlocks with a scan of your face and opens a new notification when you click on it with your thumb. Subconsciously, your opposite thumb has ended up between your teeth, biting down on the skin as you hold back an eager grin while you wait for his message to load.

You’ve never had this reaction to a message before, actually, it was usually the opposite. Rolling your eyes, ignoring the men until the last moment. Only responding to keep them enticed and subscribed — all of which keeps more money in your pocket. That’s really why you started this whole thing anyway.

FlyingFish:

Hey

A puff of air exhales through your nose, a chuckle cutting the otherwise silent kitchen. Shaking your head to yourself, you can’t help but smile at your screen. Heartbeat fluttering, you internally kick yourself for having such a reaction to such a simple message. Not even knowing who this person is, you find yourself typing back a response.

Hey there Fish

Guess I never actually asked if I could call you that

You turn back to your task at hand, continuing to cook your dinner and attempting to put out of your mind all of your assumptions about this person messaging you. You’d guess it’s a guy, an educated inference based on the demographics of your audience, but everything else is a complete mystery. The one time he insinuated he had a big dick stuck in your mind, and based on his behavior, you’d like to assume he isn’t lying. An image of a man sticks out to you each time you whimper his nickname, on camera and that handful of times off camera and alone: tall, solid, and strong. Brunette, only because that’s your type. Rough hands and commanding touches. Someone to bend your stubborn will into submission. He’s confident, at least through the chat, and he seems to know what he’s talking about. Each time you see his username pop up, you can feel yourself start to get wetter. Since you started this whole gig, there hasn’t been anyone quite like him. It’s always people asking for more for them — Show us your tits. Say my name. Turn around so we can see your ass.

But with him, it’s the opposite. He asks for more for you, which you guess is what he gets off to, not that you mind. Bet one more finger would feel even better for you, baby. Curl your fingers, cariño. You reaching that special spot? Gotta get deeper for me, baby. Rub slower, drag it out. Promise it’ll be even sweeter at the end. 

Always polite but stern in his demands. Never too much, mostly not enough for your taste. He’s built up an appetite in you that you haven’t had before, a desire to please and to be good for him. All of it doesn’t feel like performing when he’s telling you what to do, it feels like he’s there, deep rasp in your ears as you picture thick fingers in place of yours and tight grips on your plush curves. Fingerprint-shaped bruises left behind and sore muscles in your thighs from holding yourself up as he asks you to come for him over and over and over.

A vibration against the hard surface of the countertop refocuses your gaze from a thousand yards away. Turning to grab your cell, you rub your thighs together in hopes of relenting the ache between them from your daydreams. Wet panties get caught in your folds, discomfort only momentary before you lean over the counter and open your legs, reading the mystery man’s response.

You can call me anything you want bonita

But I will tell you that Fish is pretty close to my name

Fish is close to your name?

What is it? Bass? Salmon? Trout?

Funny

Fish is short for Catfish which was my call sign with my Special Ops team

Ahhh a military man. You know I like a man in uniform

Oh really? :)

Don’t wear it anymore but does it still count if I was once a man in uniform?

Hmm

:( please?

I wanna be liked by you

Showing your cards there Fishie

Not trying to play it cool?

Once you get to know me baby you’ll come to find out that me and cool don’t really go together.

I doubt that’s true

So Catfish is your call sign? Who came up with that?

My buddies on my team

Said I couldn’t grow a beard for shit and that it looked like I had whiskers

So Catfish

Well I don’t wanna call you Fish if it’s mean like that :(

What’s your real name? If you wanna tell me

Are you gonna sell my identity and let someone tank my credit score?

Never

It wouldn’t benefit me much if your card gets declined every month

I appreciate the honesty baby haha

My name’s Frankie

I like your name Frankie :)

It’s nearly an hour of messaging back and forth, flirting intermingled with genuine curiosity about the other’s life, history and background. Frankie learns that you were struggling to find a job straight out of university and needed to make rent, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to try out selling content. You detailed briefly the time that you grew your following, telling him about your Instagram too, which he follows in that instant. The notification makes you laugh and you follow him back despite the profile being completely empty of any information besides his name. Not even a profile picture. He learns that you don’t speak much to your parents anymore, that your siblings live across the country so you don’t get to see them much.

He tells you about his family — no siblings, parents that live in another part of the state and refuse to visit him in the city — and his chosen family, the Special Ops guys. Laughter hiccups from your chest when he recalls a few of the better stories from them, telling you about each other them as if he was preparing you to actually meet them. He has that thought, briefly, about all of you out for drinks. How they would probably like you as much as he does; your charm and sincerity would hook them all just as it has for him. Frankie tells you all about his current hobby, fixing up an old, cherry red 1978 Jeep Cherokee. How the only other time he spends online is searching for car parts, watching Youtube as he works on the vehicle in his garage.

You make a cheeky comment that he must be good with his hands before sending another message immediately:

Would you wanna actually talk? Like on Facetime maybe

Frankie stares at the message, blinking slowly as if it will disappear. You’re asking to talk to him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mean, if he knew that was an option he would have asked himself…

He wouldn’t and he knows he wouldn’t based on the way his stomach has dropped to his feet, his hands have gone clammy and his throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he whispers a small pep talk to himself to work up the nerve to say yes. He wants to see you, he always wants to see more of you, but the fact that you’d see him as well…he can’t cope.

Heat trickles across the back of his neck and up his cheeks, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as his brain completely wipes any thought to respond. Dropping his phone into his lap, both of his hands reach up, one grabbing the brim of his cap and lifting it from his head while the other runs through his hair to push it back away from his face. In the corner of his eye, he catches his left knee bouncing. Lips press together in a thin line, rolling the flesh between his teeth before he picks up his phone again and sends a message back to you with just his phone number.

Not even a minute later, his screen lights up with a list of digits strung together in an unfamiliar order. As if it were possible, he felt his stomach drop lower than his feet, deep into the ground below and burrowing away along with his confidence.

Shit, this was a stupid idea. He’s going to make a fool of himself and you’ll lose interest and he’ll have to think about you every day for the rest of his life and wonder what you’re doing, how you’re doing, even what your name is—

Fuck, he’s gonna miss the call.

Frankie decides that it is much more embarrassing to miss the call he just sent his phone number for than to potentially come off as uncool, so his finger swipes to the right to answer. Quickly, he turns off his camera before you notice, opting for the level of anonymity to remain.

“Hi, Frankie…” Your candied voice drips with sweetness around his name. He’s been imagining you saying it, trying to get it right in his mind over the past few weeks, but hearing it now he relishes in the fact that none of them were right. None of them sounded like spun sugar, like it did just now.

You fill the frame from your shoulders up, the same bright smile on your face that he’s seen at the end of each live, after he’s had his fun with you, but looking completely different out of that context. It’s a bit shy, demure in the way you're resting in your bed against your pillows, t-shirt on and fresh-faced. You look beautiful. And it makes him feel a bit silly that you can’t see his reaction.

“Hey, bonita. M’sorry I don’t have my camera on, jus’ nervous. Didn’t want you to hang up right away gettin’ a look at this mug,” he says with self-deprecating laughter at the end, watching as your brows knit together with a pout on your lips.

“You don’t have to apologize, Frankie. M’happy to do whatever you’re comfortable with. Besides, if your voice gives me any indication of your looks, you’d probably be making me way more nervous.” Teeth bite into your bottom lip as you hold in a grin, a hand coming into view to nudge at your nose. He’s seen you do it a few times on live, whenever you’re waiting in anticipation. For him, he’d like to think.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he teases, the smirk playing at his face evident in his flirty tone.

“You jus’ sound…nice.”

“Nice? That’s all? Why would that make you nervous, baby?”

A sigh slips from your lips, rolling your head back as he hears the smallest whine from you. His cock jumps in his sweats, already half hard from the flirty back and forth in your messages.

“God, you’re going to be a problem with all those pet names,” you say exasperated. Frankie laughs at his screen, feeling like an idiot sitting here alone and smiling like a fool. You’re cute when you’re mad.

“You can tell me your name and I can use that instead?” he propositions, licking his lips as he awaits the piece of information he’s been chomping at the bit to have.

“No! I mean, I’ll tell you my name, but…I like the nicknames. Keep them. Please.” Your words scramble out and it makes him grin wider, witnessing you as nervous as he’s feeling. When you give him your name, he repeats it a few times, rolling it around in his mouth, tasting the syllables on his tongue. Delicate, floral, sweet but a slight tang. Smooth as it rolls across his vocal cords, soothing the rising heat he’s feeling with a refreshing chill. Like peaches and cream.

The two of you chat back and forth for a while, pride swelling in his chest when you laugh at his stupid jokes or give him a compliment, despite being none-the-wiser to his looks. He’s quick to make you blush with his comments, telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. And Frankie’s thanking himself for keeping his camera off, because at times during the call, his eyes drift to your chest, blatantly staring at your perked up nipples through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. It grows his hard on, the softness of your breasts bouncing around as you restlessly squirm during the call enticing him to picture getting his mouth on them. He’d guess you’d taste the same as your name.

The next time you move, he watches your chest again before a sight in the background catches his eye, drawing a chuckle from his mouth. A stuffed bunny lays next to you in your bed, messy with age and love. A soft pink color with a red ribbon tied around its neck, he finds the need to ask about it prodding in his mind.

“Is that who films everything for you?” he jokes, watching your face twist with confusion before looking to your side and bursting out in a laugh. Returning your eyes to the camera, you shake your head timidly.

“No, unfortunately he’s pretty limited to cuddling.”

“He? Didn’t know you had a man in your life, baby. Feels like we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of him.” The sound of your laughter quickens his pulse, the melody trilling in his ears with comfort.

“Well, I guess if you could offer me more than cuddling, he could be demoted.”

“I think I can offer more, Conejita.” Frankie watches as something akin to excitement, but burning brighter, flashes in your eyes. You sit up more, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

“What could you offer me, Frankie?” It’s a loaded question. He could be polite, steer the conversation away from where he so desperately wants it to go, to be a gentleman. It would be easy to make a joke, to get you both to move on.

But he always wants to see where this could go. You’re the one who wanted to talk on the phone in the first place. And he would never suggest anything to make you uncomfortable, and he thinks that you know that. It’s like what the two of you do in your lives — a conversation, a back and forth that may end up benefitting both of you.

“Depends on what you’re lookin’ for, Conejita. I’m a man of many talents.” The words are slick on his tongue, silvery with enticement.

“Hm…” you ponder out loud, tapping your index finger against your bottom lip before turning back to the camera, “Can you cook?”

“Decently. Can’t claim I’m a chef, but I feed myself. And m’pretty good at a grill and makin’ some of my mamá’s recipes. Insisted on teaching them to me so they didn’t end with her.”

Grinning warmly, he feels his heartbeat kick up against his chest, thumping hard at the sight of you giving him that look. “That’s so sweet that she taught you. You can teach me, then someone else in the world will know her recipes too.”

Christ, you’re so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what he wants more in the moment: to keep talking and simply listen to your voice, or to flirt his way into something more.

“She might be a better teacher than me, baby. Would probably be over the moon if you asked to learn since she had to force me a bit,” he laughs along with your quiet giggle, taking a deep breath when you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Are you a good teacher of other things?”

“I’d like to think so. Haven’t I taught you new things already, Conejita?”

There goes his heartbeat when you look away from the camera, smirk lifting your cheekbones as your demeanor goes shy, shrugging your shoulders as you lay back again, shifting to get comfortable.

“You have…And now I’ve learned how sexy your voice is, too. I’ll be picturing everything you type now to be said in your voice.”

Frankie breathes out a chuckle, a heat burning the nap of his neck, trickling down his back. He feels the effects of his blood rushing below his belt, ever-so-slightly lightheaded as he quietly palms his bulge in his sweatpants.

“My voice is sexy?”

“Um, duh. Are you kidding me? You sound all…rugged and raspy and deep. Like you could manhandle me easily,” you admit your thoughts easily, and he sighs quietly at the thought of having you in front of him to throw around his bed and mold you into the positions he dreams of getting you into.

“No tienes ni idea de lo que haría contigo (You've got no idea what I would do with you)...” he mumbles under his breath, hearing a soft whimper from you. One of your arms is slung across your front, pressing your breast into the other and he can take a guess as to what your hand is up to. “You want some help, baby? I bet you’re jus’ feeling so needy, aren’t you? Listening to my voice got you that worked up?”

“Mhmm…I need it, Frankie…” Your voice has the edge of a whine and he exhales slowly as he hears you beg for him. Not his call sign or a username. His name. Him. There’s no one else who’s making you feel this way, no one else striving for attention.

He pushes his pants down, pulling his hard cock out to start slowly stroking. You’ve left him aching, dripping precum that his fingers smear around his length to lubricate as he moves up and down in a teasing pace.

“Use your manners, Conejita. What d’you say?”

“Please. Please, Frankie. I wanna hear your voice, I want you to tell me what to do.” He hisses from behind his teeth as he squeezes his cock at the base, leaning his head back against his headboard before his focus zeroes in on you on his screen, asking for his guidance, his control to get you off. No one else privy to the sights he’s seeing.

“Good girl. Such a good girl for me, baby. Why don’t you take off your shirt for me? Let me see you, bonita.” Wetting his lips with his tongue when you move to prop your phone up on your mattress, an expert at framing yourself perfectly. The thin, worn fabric of your sleep shirt slips over your head, leaving you on full display for him — already pantyless. Whether you started the call with any on is a mystery to him, but now, he settles back to tell you exactly what he wants from you…what he knows will feel good for his conejita.

“Okay, bunny, lean back for me…That’s it, get comfortable. Good girl.” Looking into your camera to your side, a nervous smile plays at your lips, shyness overcoming you as you wait with bated breath for Frankie, who’s still a mystery to you, to instruct you. It’s driving him mad, how trusting you are of him without ever seeing his face. Such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.

“Show me how you like to play when no one’s watching.”

When his phone dings one evening a few weeks later, Frankie pulls himself out from under the hood of his project car. A familiar fizz bubbles over his body, a Pavlovian response that’s been built over the last few weeks he’s been talking to you. There have been text chains, full of flirty sincerity, and more phone calls, all with his camera off but not all ending like that first one. There have been times when the two of you have had long conversations, full of laughter and learning about the other. A few calls have ended with you falling asleep, stuffed bunny tucked under your chin and pillowy lips parted slightly with deep, even breaths.

Admittedly, he’s grown attached. Maybe a bit much for…whatever this relationship or friendship is, but he can’t help the teenage giddiness he’s felt with every text chime, ringtone, or dial that he’s found you on the other end of.

He’s got a crush.

So immediately at the peal of his cell, he’s reaching for the rag on his workbench, wiping his hands clean of grease before reading over your message.

Conejita:

Hiii 😚

Are you busy?​

Grinning like a fool at the gray bubble, Frankie begins to type out a response before abandoning the message and clicking the phone button at the top of your name instead. Pressing the speaker to his ear, he runs a thumb across his bottom lip while he listens to the trill of the dial tone. Steps pace him across the garage, counting them in his head as he waits for an answer.

“Hey, stranger.” The line clicks on and your voice immediately draws a smile across Frankie’s face, hearing one of yours in your upbeat tone.

“Hey, Conejita. What’s up with you?” Even your presence over the phone calms his nerves, sparking kindling low in his gut that spreads down to his toes and up to the back of his neck. Frankie tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder as he wanders back over to the carhood, shutting it carefully. He retreats inside, washing his hands as he listens to you recount your day.

“...So then I got pissed off and left ‘cause she was being so unreasonable. And then I wanted to talk to you ‘cause, I dunno.” The intensity in your cadence slows down toward the tailend of your story of an argument with a friend of yours; Frankie chuckles, biting his tongue while you sigh deeply and he dries his hands off on a kitchen towel.

“You don’t know why you wanted to talk to me? Don’t get all shy on me now, cariño,” he teases you, receiving a frustrated huff on the other end. “Well, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. She sounds like she has a stick up her ass. And m’glad you wanted to call me, Conejita.”

“D’you wanna switch to Facetime?”

“‘Course, I do. Always wanna see your face, jus’ one sec…” Frankie climbs his stairs two at a time, reaching the landing as his screen lights up with the Facetime request from you. He answers it, camera off, while he changes out of dirty clothes and listens to you chatting about plans for the weekend. He mentions going out with the guys tomorrow night, and you make a jest that gets him laughing, both of you bantering back and forth before he settles back on his bed.

“Y’know, I am content to chat with you like this, Frankie. But I keep wondering what you look like…” In the small rectangle of his screen, you lean forward to fill more of it, cleavage exposed in your bralette. He’s been waiting for this to be brought up again, and feeling so much more comfortable with you, he can’t admit he hasn’t thought about it. But with that stronger connection comes the anxieties. What if he isn’t what you pictured? What if he isn’t your type? What if you don’t like him anymore?

Frankie thinks he’s decent looking enough — he hasn’t had much trouble pulling girls since he was a teenager, but not being the most commanding or charismatic in the room, he has had his bouts of struggle in the relationship department.

“Please, Frankie. S’not fair I get to hear your sexy voice and not know what you look like. Pretty please, I’ll give you something special if you do,” you bargain with a pout on your face, bottom lip protruding and puffy. He wants to kiss it away, bite down on the glossy flesh, work away your frowning moue with his own mouth. Wonderings of what you taste like.

Coming back into himself, he wears a proud, intrigued smirk that you’re blind to except for the way his words curl around his slick, silvery tongue, “Oh, is that right, bunny? What if I wanna know what the something special is to decide?”

“Not how it works, silly. Either you want something special or you don’t.” A stern shake of the head, sitting up straight as you raise an eyebrow at him.

He sits with it for a moment, thoughts warring on the inside. In the end, his realistic side barters that either way could end badly: he doesn’t turn the camera on and you get frustrated, ending it, or he does turn the camera on and you don’t like the look of him, ending it. A phantom whisper of your voice, bubbly and bright, reminds him that it could make everything even better, and that ultimately is what convinces him.

“Alright, alright. You make a convincing argument, Conejita.”

A beaming smile stretches across your face as you draw a leg up to your chest, resting your head on your kneecap while you hold back your excitement and anticipation. Frankie takes in the sight of you, astir on tenterhooks.

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbles to himself before his thumb is pressing the camera button, illuminating himself on your screen. He sees himself in the smaller rectangle in the corner, grimacing before he laughs softly and grins, awaiting your reaction with waves of solicitude raging inside.

You see him, your Frankie. Filling your phone screen. Finally.

A nearly inaudible gasp leaves your lips, blocked from the mic by your knee. Studying his face, you witness the lines next to his eyes deepening as he laughs, his shy smile growing on his face. Big brown eyes strike your chest, their sincere softness making you want to fall into their warmth and stay there forever. Like the comforting heat of a mug of coffee on a chilly morning. You note that your visualizations were correct, mostly. Brown hair, curling out from under the cap branded with Standard Oil that sits on his head. Wide set shoulders that extend out of frame, a build to him that screams he most definitely can manhandle you around in bed. His call sign makes a bit more sense to you, seeing patches in his short beard, admiring the one on his left cheek that is shaped like a heart. Simply endearing. The image of him in front of you sends a shock to your core, wet spot in your panties growing as you begin to imagine what the rest of him looks like.

Hot is all you can think. Frankie is fucking hot.

His voice cuts through your trails of admiration, joking around to break the silent tension, “So are you gonna ask me to keep my camera off now?”

As you swallow to recover some of your composure, shaking your head back and forth quickly before a genuinely eager smile paints your expression. Leaning closer to see more of his details, freckles across his neck and where his shirt exposes a sliver of his chest, the peak of his cupid’s bow shaded by his mustache, long eyelashes that reach toward his eyebrows. You drop your knee from in front of you, leaning an elbow on the surface of your desk and resting your shin in your palm.

“Frankie, respectfully, what the fuck? You’re so hot.”

A boisterous laugh rolls from his chest, the same shy smile returning with a blush across his cheeks, “Conejita, you’re the hot one between us.”

“No, no, I’m being serious. You’re like — Damn. Your smile. And you have pretty eyes, Frankie. And you’re just like…really fucking hot. I can’t even think of another word. You should be the one doing what I’m doing.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re only seeing my face, baby.”

“Yeah, and? It’s a pretty face…Wanna sit on it.” Your giggle cuts through his speakers, and Frankie groans at the comment. Saliva coats your mouth as you watch the muscles in his neck tense, licking your chops like a prowling lion. If only he was in front of you right now…

“Diablita…eres una problema. (Little devil…you’re a problem.) Do I get my special something now?”

Another giggle and a mischievous smirk make Frankie’s brows stitch together in frustration, your shoulders shrugging as you toy with the strap of your bra, hooked under your index finger, “Actually, I think I wanna move the goalpost. Will you show me what I’m missin’, Frankie? I wanna see more.”

Desire burns bright and wild inside of you, ache building between your legs as your arousal drips from your panties and onto your thighs. You’d been picturing him — all of him — for weeks. Ever since that first message. But now, seeing him on your phone screen, your imagination is running wild with newfound information and attempting to fill in the blanks. He has to be big, thickness would be just right. He’s the quiet type, unassuming in his own looks, which means he has to have a virtually perfect dick. It's the rules of the universe. Undecided if he’s cut or not, but regardless, picturing your manicured fingers wrapped around it and tongue licking at his tip. Watching him come undone from you. Stomach tensing, those long fingers that you sneak a peek of when he adjusts his hat wrapped up in your hair. Rasping moans. What would he taste like?

Frankie shakes his head, a quick tsking drawing your attention back to the moment as he looks on with a teasing expression, “Conejita, I don’t think it works like that.”

“Okay, then no special something for you. Your choice, Francisco.”

He watches as you move the strap back up your shoulder, the soft snap of the elastic against your skin. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he mumbles, “No serías tan valiente si estuvieras aquí conmigo, mocosa. (You wouldn’t be so brave if you were here with me, brat.)”

Uncaring in whatever annoyances he was airing with you, you watch him sit up further in the frame, knocking off his cap and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Despite his words, he lifts his shirt over his head, looking back at the camera, bare shoulders and chest on display, “This is what you get for now, bunny.”

Satisfaction glows from your smile, biting hard into your bottom lip while Frankie watches your eyes search everywhere on your screen besides his own. A stern clearing of his throat breaks your trance, a commanding expression on Frankie’s face.

“You promised me something, Conejita.”

A deep pout replaces your grin, huffing in defiance as you slip your bra straps from your shoulders, “Can’t you please take the rest off? Show me what I wanna see, Frankie. Please.”

“Nah uh. Quit demanding, baby. Y’know that’s my job. Now tell me, what are you gonna do for me to get what you want?” His unwavering voice surprises you, despite hearing it for weeks. With the added heat factor of his looks, you crumble a bit quicker, clenching your thighs as you sigh and nod obediently.

“I’ll do anything, Frankie. Jus’ tell me what to do, I wanna make you happy.”

He grins on the screen, sincere softness peeking out, “Oh, baby, y’know it’s easy to make me happy. Jus’ gotta be a good little bunny, yeah?” He hums, licking his lips as he ponders what he wants from you tonight, a night he wants to fill with another milestone for the two of you. He’s only seen you use a small vibrator or your fingers on the phone with you, but he knows what else you have. He’s watched the video of you using it on your profile only about ten times.

“Get your pretty pink toy for me, Conejita. Y’know the one. And then get on the floor and you’re going to show me exactly how you use it.”

There’s rustling as you follow his instructions, stripping bare and suctioning the toy to your hardwood floors, propping the phone up for him to see it all. The hot pink dildo bobbles from you moving around it, glistening with lube that you applied — even though with one glance at your cunt, both you and Frankie know you wouldn’t need it. Straddling over the silicone, you slowly tease your entrance with it, whining before you make one more attempt to Frankie watching you with a smugness in his smirk.

“Please, Frankie, can’t you please show me your cock? I wanna picture it while I fuck myself. Wanna know if it’s how I imagined…Dream about it a lot.” He can read right through your tactics, but his dick can’t. It strains against his zippered jeans, throbbing under the fabric for some sort of relief. He squeezes his palm over it once, exhaling as he shakes his head, strong in his convictions.

“Be a good girl, and I’ll show you what you wanna see.” No more room for negotiations.

“Yes’sir.”

Frankie’s mouth hangs ajar while his focus trains on the apex of your thighs. Watching you slowly sink down, the bright pink rubbery toy disappears inside of you. Whimpers slip from your lips as you brace your hands on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin. Need burns brightly in his chest and below his belt, clenching his jaw while he imagines biting the meaty part of you, leaving teeth marks in his wake before settling his mouth at your entrance.

Your hips set a quick pace, desperate for the high you’ve been dripping for since getting on the phone with Frankie. A low growl followed with a disapproving tut clicks over the speakers of your phone.

“Slow down, baby girl. Not a race…” Frankie corrects, and the only response you have is a frantic nod, turning your movements to a drag. The toy fills you up, stretches you the most that you have ever been. Pain heats your feelings of pleasure, intensifying it all in the lightness of your limbs and head. The ridges of the faux veins of the fake cock impress into your walls, the tip of it notching at the spot inside of you that Frankie taught you to reach. It only skates by it, whines accompanying your frustrations.

Frankie, on the other end, listens to the squelch of your pussy around the silicone. The sound drives him to fully cup his erection through his pants, palming himself with heady breaths as your own moans for him drive the iron hot brand of need deeper into his skin. He can see your need for a change, your need to be given permission to chase that feeling that’s within reach.

“Lean back, little bunny. Sit back on your hands and use your hips…Show me more of that pretty pussy,” he instructs, cool and confident while his hips buck up into his hand. Being his perfect girl, you do as he says and change positions, gasping when you sink down onto the toy. Your cunt clenches around it, a satisfied smirk painting Frankie’s face. He knows he’s gotten you to hit that special spot. With the grip your entrance has around the base of the dildo, he wonders if you’ll pop it off of the floor on your next thrust.

“Oh, fuck…Frankie, wish you were here. Tell me—tell me what you’d do to me if you were here,” you beg, your hips still dragging at the new angle.

A groan escapes Frankie at your request, biting down hard on his lip and taking his hand away from his lap to deny himself the temptation.

“You love hearing me say all the dirty things to you, huh Conejita?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “If I were there with you, I’d would be—shit—I’d be devouring you right now. Fucking you with my tongue and my fingers, making you squeeze me and getting your come all over my face. Gotta get you ready for me, bunny. After, I’d flip you over. Get your pretty ass up for me, and I’d fuck you senseless. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Turn it all off up there and just let me take care of you…”

Nodding, your hips start to move faster as Frankie speaks to you. He doesn’t have the heart to tease you anymore, letting you start to take what you want for a bit. Your moans pitch up, tits bouncing with your nipples pebbled and the rest of your soft curves twisting as you rock back and forth on the toy.

“Yes, please. I want that,” you mewl, heavy breaths erratic.

“That’s right. My baby deserves it all,” he says with a sigh, his large palm squeezing his hard cock again, slowly unzipping his jeans and slipping his hand into his boxers to grip himself at the base. “I’d fuck you until that pretty little brain of yours was filled up only with thoughts of how good I make you feel. How good you are for me, pretty girl…Look at you go, bouncing on that toy. Rub your clit, Conejita. Slow, at least for right now.”

You follow his orders, supporting yourself on one arm. Slow circles against your clit have you shuddering with pleasure, a twitch of your tummy as you moan. Your eyes flutter shut, face twisting with overwhelming need. Frankie drinks in the sight, indulging himself in a few long strokes of his cock before he hears it.

“Daddy…” you breathe, near a whisper, but it’s audible to him. Lost in yourself, you don’t even notice you’ve let it slip until it comes again, “Oh my god, Daddy.”

The surprise of it shocks your eyes open, stuttering your hips as you narrow in on your screen. Frankie’s eyes grow dark, licking his lips as he holds in a loud moan. His fingers grip the base of his aching cock, holding off at the edge. So close to coming when he heard that word drip from your mouth like melted sugar.

He can tell you’re attempting to gauge his reaction, nervous settling in as you attempt to move on from it and continue fucking yourself closer to finishing. Frankie’s eager to take it in stride, clearing his throat before he gives it right back to you, opening that door that he knows won’t be shut any time soon. At least not by him.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby. Let Daddy tell you what you need, yeah?” He chuckles darkly, satisfaction thumping in his veins while you nod and whimper yes yes yes back to him, “Y’know, if you like that lil’ toy, baby, Daddy’s cock will feel even better. S’bigger than that fucking thing.”

“Oh, fuck, I need to—I need you, Daddy, please!”

“I know, Conejita, I know. Poor little thing jus’ needs Daddy to be filling her up, huh? You wanna know what my cock feels like inside of you, don’t you, pequeña?” He hisses with a buck of his hips into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second.

“Yes, yes, please, Daddy! Please,” you choke on a breath and Frankie can see you twitch at your inner thighs from the full-on view of your pussy, your tell-tale sign that you’re about to come.

“Y’know the rules, Conejita. Better ask before you come.”

“Please, please may I come?” you moan, rubbing faster circles against your clit and grinding down on your toy.

“Oh, bunny, you can ask nicer than that. May I come…?” he leads, smirking devilishly when you nearly squeal from the way he’s holding you out on the edge. Teetering on the verge of that high that he knows well, he can see your legs faltering with a cramp.

“Please may I come, Daddy?” Your eyes open, heavy-lidded and lips parted with shallow breathing. Frankie gets lost in the sight, wrecked from his direction, his words, a sheen of sweat over your skin and the arousal coating your thighs. A fucking dream.

“Mm, come for Daddy, baby girl—” he’s interrupt as you erupt in a high-pitched moan, mouth wide open as you string together mumblings Oh fuck, Daddy, feels so good. Need you so bad…

“Good girl.”

Frankie hums contently, chuckling as a dopey grin finds your face, blinking through the orgasmic haze. Laying back, you slip the toy out of your pussy, leaving it to wobble in place and spreading your legs around it. One arm comes to rest against your forehead, breasts rising and falling with deep, recovering breaths. He’s blocked of the view that would make this moment even sweeter, licking his lips before he speaks up.

“Lemme see that fucked cunt of yours, bunny. Let Daddy see what belongs to him.” You sit up again, popping the toy off of the floor and laying it to the side to be cleaned later. Frankie hums as you part your legs more, the glittering of your come dripping on your thighs and across your swollen pussy. “Eres un buen oyente, pequeña. (You’re a good listener, little one.)”

“What’s that mean?” you ask, a long exhale punctuating the question.

“You’re a good listener, little one.” Frankie grins when you grow shy, inching your legs together before he tsks again, one hand coming into frame to motion for your lower limbs to part again.

“Y’know, it would look even prettier with my come dripping out of ya, baby.”

“Please.”

“What, Conejita?”

“Don’t tease me anymore…Can’t take it, Daddy.” You lips push out in a pout, subtle but he can catch the change in expression.

“Nah uh, no pouting, bunny. Who said that I was teasing? I’m going to make it happen.”

Sweetness slips from your lips in a giggle, leaning over to pick up your phone and hold him closer to your face.

“So, if I was a good girl, doesn’t that mean I get to see what I asked for before?” Wiggling in eagerness, Frankie feigns ignorance, scratching at his beard as he shrugs, acting as if he didn’t nearly come in his pants multiple times in the last few minutes.

“I dunno, Conejita. What did you ask me for? Gonna have to remind me.”

“Your cock. I wanna see it.” Your pout sneaks back, biting your lip. “May I please see your cock, Daddy?”

“I think I could do that for you, baby. Asking so nicely. Such a good girl for Daddy, yeah?”

“Always.” A giggle bubbles up from your tummy, biting down on your lip as Frankie takes you in, shaking his head in subtle disbelief. How the hell did clicking for one subscription get him here, having Facetime sex with you?

He obliges your original requests, moving to prop his phone up in front of him, stripping down his jeans first. The sight of his bulge waters your mouth, pupils widening in want at the outline of his cock. No tricks of the light, no chance of manipulation like some men in your DMs do. All natural.

And Frankie wasn’t lying. He’s big.

The reveal comes when he tugs his boxers down to his ankles, settling in front of the camera again. His heavy length rests against his lower stomach, precum dripping into his dark happy trail. Your eyes drag over the veins ribbing him, leading down to show off that he’s tastefully groomed. Swallowing saliva, you lick your lips as his large hand wraps around, slow strokes that gently shift the foreskin away from his tip. The end of his cock glistens with pebbles of precum, red and aching. Frankie hisses at the contact, the veins in his neck straining against his skin while he starts to fuck his fist.

“You look so pretty, Daddy,” you compliment sweetly, grinning at him as he laughs quietly back at you.

“Such a sweet little bunny. You think you can take me in your tight little cunt?” A long exhales concaves his chest, quiet moans as his hand picks up pace. 

You return his regular favor of talking him through it, detailing how good of a girl you’d be for him, telling him all that he would be allowed to do to you. The sounds Frankie makes has you dripping again, getting his permission to fuck your fingers, both of you driving each other to a peak, your second one taking the breath from your lungs as Frankie comes at the same time. Whimpers escape your mouth as you envy his hand and stomach being covered in his release, biting your tongue and crowding the screen as he shows off how much you made him come.

“Wish I was there to clean you up, Daddy.”

“Right back at you, Conejita.”

A few days later, Frankie calls you after one of your livestreams, grinning like a schoolboy when you answer in only your underwear. You laugh as you set your phone down on the surface of your dressing, his childish smirk turning to a pout as he stares at your white painted ceiling. Calling out to him, you ask for one second while you tug a sweatshirt over your head, shuffling around before grabbing the device and relaxing back on your bed, bunny in your lap.

“Hi, baby,” Frankie coos, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile as he drinks in your cozy, drowsy demeanor. Cuddling with the toy against your chest, you grin back at him, curling up onto your side like a cat.

“Hi, Frankie,” you mumble back, exhaustion heavy in your eyes.

“You sleepy, little bunny?” A slow nod answers his question. “Alright, I won’t keep you up for long then. Just had a question for you.”

The vague proposition piques your interest, your eyes shooting open and the camera being brought closer to your face, “What’s your question?”

Frankie works his lips between his teeth, nerves crackling over his entire body. Realistically, he knows you’ll say yes, but there’s still that chance for rejection in the moment. His left leg bounces against his couch, hand running over his face as he takes a deep breath in, “I was wondering if you’d wanna come visit me here in Florida? If you don’t have time—”

“I would love to come visit, Frankie,” you agree immediately, a sincere smile growing on your face. Frankie mirrors your excitement with a goofy grin, the creases next to his eyes deepening and his dimple cratoring his cheek. “I’ll even book my flight right now, that’s how eager I am.”

Shaking his head furiously, he clicks his tongue in a tut, scolding you playfully, “Hey, hey. No, none of that. I’m not letting my baby pay, I’m the one who asked you to come.”

“But—”

“Nope, no buts. Except yours getting onto a plane and coming to see me,” Frankie laughs at his own joke, earning a playful eye roll as you hold back your own chuckle. “Oh, c’mon, that was funny, Conejita. I can tell you want to laugh.”

The two of you go back and forth while he books your flight on his laptop, showing off the confirmation number once it’s all gone through. Both of you wear shit-eating grins on your faces, sitting in disbelief.

Frankie can’t help the rush of anxiety, unable to tell if it’s solely from his excitement. All he can think about is having you in front of him, in the flesh, in person. No screens between the two of you, no broken signals or shitty wifi interruptions. Hearing your voice without the strain of speakers, getting to touch you, taste you, hear you, feel you all over him. There’s the flash of a vision of you laid out underneath him, making your little sounds that drive him crazy and digging your nails into his back…

“Gonna let Daddy spoil you while you’re down here, baby girl?” Frankie smirks as you stretch sleepily, biting down on your lip.

“You’re flying me out, isn’t that spoiling me enough? Shouldn’t it be my turn to spoil you then?”

“Think you know the answer to that, baby. Having you in front of me is spoiling me enough, I jus’ wanna take care of you.” 

The simple statement brings a smile to your face, shyly tucking your face into your pillow. The rest of the call relaxes you back to near sleep, listening as Frankie tells you all about what he’ll take you to do. Your drowsiness catches up with you, drifting off on the phone. Frankie chuckles quietly to himself, sitting with you for a moment silently before he goes to hang up.

“Night, Conejita. Can’t wait to see you.”

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